Chapter 6

And when the old cathedral bell Proclaimed the morning prayer, The white pavilions rose and fell On the alarméd air.

Down the broad valley fast and far The troubled army fled: Up rose the glorious morning star, The ghastly host was dead.

I have read in the marvellous heart of man, That strange and mystic scroll, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Beleaguer the human soul.

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, In Fancy's misty light, Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam Portentous through the night.

Upon its midnight battle-ground The spectral camp is seen, And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, Flows the River of Life between.

No other voice nor sound is there, In the army of the grave; No other challenge breaks the air, But the rushing of Life's wave.

And then the solemn and deep church-bell Entreats the soul to pray, The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away.

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral camp is fled; Faith shineth as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead.

A NEWPORT ROMANCE: BRET HARTE

They say that she died of a broken heart (I tell the tale as 'twas told to me); But her spirit lives, and her soul is part Of this sad old house by the sea.

Her lover was fickle and fine and French; It was more than a hundred years ago When he sailed away from her arms,--poor wench!-- With the Admiral Rochambeau.

I marvel much what periwigged phrase Won the heart of this sentimental Quaker, At what gold-laced speech of those modish days She listened,--the mischief take her!

But she kept the posies of mignonette That he gave; and ever as their bloom failed And faded (though with her tears still wet) Her youth with their own exhaled.

Till one night when the sea fog wrapped a shroud Round spar and spire and tarn and tree, Her soul went up on that lifted cloud From this sad old house by the sea.

And ever since then, when the clock strikes two, She walks unbidden from room to room, And the air is filled as she passes through With a subtle, sad perfume.

The delicate odor of mignonette, The ghost of a dead-and-gone bouquet, Is all that tells of her story; yet Could she think of a sweeter way?

* * * * *

I sit in the sad old house to-night-- Myself a ghost from a farther sea; And I trust that this Quaker woman might, In courtesy, visit me.

For the laugh is fled from the porch and lawn, And the bugle died from the fort on the hill, And the twitter of girls on the stairs is gone, And the grand piano is still.

Somewhere in the darkness a clock strikes two; And there is no sound in the sad old house, But the long veranda dripping with dew, And in the wainscot a mouse.

The light of my study-lamp streams out From the library door, but has gone astray In the depths of the darkened hall; small doubt But the Quakeress knows the way.

Was it the trick of a sense o'erwrought With outward watching and inward fret? But I swear that the air just now was fraught With the odor of mignonette!

I open the window and seem almost-- So still lies the ocean--to hear the beat Of its great Gulf Artery off the coast, And to bask in its tropic heat.

In my neighbor's windows the gas lights flare As the dancers swing in a waltz from Strauss; And I wonder now could I fit that air To the song of this sad old house.

And no odor of mignonette there is, But the breath of morn on the dewy lawn; And maybe from causes as slight as this The quaint old legend was born.

But the soul of that subtle sad perfume, As the spiced embalmings, they say, outlast The mummy laid in his rocky tomb, Awakens my buried past.

And I think of the passion that shook my youth, Of its aimless loves and its idle pains, And am thankful now for the certain truth That only the sweet remains.

And I hear no rustle of stiff brocade, And I see no face at my library door; For now that the ghosts of my heart are laid, She is viewless forevermore.

But whether she came as a faint perfume, Or whether a spirit in stole of white, I feel, as I pass from the darkened room, She has been with my soul to-night.

A LEGEND: MAY KENDALL

Ay, an old story, yet it might Have truth in it--who knows? Of the heroine's breaking down one night Just ere the curtain rose.

And suddenly, when fear and doubt Had shaken every heart, There stepped an unknown actress out, To take the heroine's part.

But oh, the magic of her face, And oh the songs she sung, And oh the rapture of the place, And oh the flowers they flung!

But she never stooped: they lay all night, As when she turned away, And left them--and the saddest light Shone in her eyes of grey.

She gave a smile in glancing round, And sighed, one fancied, then-- But never they knew where she was bound, Or saw her face again,

But the old prompter, grey and frail, They heard him murmur low, "It only could be Meg Coverdale, Died thirty years ago,

"In that old part, who took the town; And she was fair, as fair As when they shut the coffin down On the gleam of her golden hair;

"And it wasn't hard to understand How a lass as fair as she Could never rest in the Promised Land, Where none but angels be."

A MIDNIGHT VISITOR: ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN

After all the house is dark, And the last soft step is still, And the elm-bough's clear-cut shadow Flickers on the window sill--

When the village lights are out, And the watch-dogs all asleep, And the misty silver radiance Makes the shade look black and deep--

When, so silent is the night, Not a dead leaf dares to fall, And I only hear the death-watch Ticking, ticking in the wall--

When no hidden mouse dares gnaw At the silence dead and dumb, And the very air seems waiting For a Something that should come--

Suddenly, there stands my guest, Whence he came I cannot see; Not a door has swung before him, Not a hand touched latch or key,

Not a rustle stirred the air; Yet he stands there, brave and mute, In his eyes a look of greeting, In his hand an old-time flute.

Then, with all the courtly grace Of the old Colonial school, From the curtain-shadowed corner Forth he draws a three-legged stool--

(Ah, it was not there before! Search as closely as I may, I can never, never find it When I look for it by day!)

Places it beside my bed, And while silently I gaze Spell-bound by his mystic presence, Seats himself thereon and plays.

Gracious, stately, grave and tall, Always dressed from crown to toe In the quaint elaborate fashion Of a hundred years ago.

Doublet, small-clothes, silk-clocked hose; Wears my midnight melodist, Snowy ruffles in his bosom, Snowy ruffles at his wrist.

Silver buckle at his knee, Silver buckle on his shoe; Powdered hair smoothed back and plaited In a stiff old-fashioned queue.

If I stir he vanishes; If I speak he flits away; If I lie in utter silence, He will sit for hours and play;

Play old wailing minor airs, Melancholy, wild and slow, Such, mayhap, as pleased the maidens Of a hundred years ago.

All in vain I wait to hear Ghostly histories of wrong Unconfessed and unforgiven, Unavenged and suffered long;

Not a story does he tell, Not a single word he says-- Only sits and gazes at me Steadily, and plays and plays.

Who is he, my midnight guest? Wherefore does he haunt me so; Coming from the misty shadows Of a hundred years ago?

HAUNTED: AMY LOWELL

See! He trails his toes Through the long streaks of moonlight, And the nails of his fingers glitter; They claw and flash among the tree-tops. His lips suck at my open window, And his breath creeps about my body And lies in pools under my knees. I can see his mouth sway and wobble, Sticking itself against the window-jambs, But the moonlight is bright on the floor, Without a shadow. Hark! A hare is strangling in the forest, And the wind tears a shutter from the wall.

THE LITTLE GREEN ORCHARD: WALTER DE LA MARE

Some one is always sitting there, In the little green orchard; Even when the sun is high In noon's unclouded sky, And faintly droning goes The bee from rose to rose, Some one in shadow is sitting there, In the little green orchard.

Yes, and when twilight's falling softly On the little green orchard; When the gray dew distils And every flower cup fills; When the last blackbird says, "What--what!" and goes her way--ssh! I have heard voices calling softly In the little green orchard.

Not that I am afraid of being there, In the little green orchard; Why, when the moon's been bright, Shedding her lonesome light, And moths like ghosties come, And the horned snail leaves home: I've stayed there, whispering and listening there, In the little green orchard.

Only it's strange to be feeling there, In the little green orchard; Whether you paint or draw, Dig, hammer, chop or saw, When you are most alone, All but the silence gone ... Some one is waiting and watching there, In the little green orchard.

FIREFLIES: LOUISE DRISCOLL

What are you, fireflies, That come as daylight dies? Are you the old, old dead, Creeping through the long grass, To see the green leaves move And feel the light wind pass?

The larkspur in my garden Is a sea of rose and blue, The white moth is a ghost ship Drifting through.

The shadows fall like lilacs Raining from a garden sky, Pollen laden bees go home, Bird songs die.

The honeysuckle breaks a flask, And a breeze, on pleasure bent, Catches in her little hands The sharp scent.

In the darkness and the dew Come the little, flying flames, Are they the forgotten dead, Without names?

Did they love the leaves and wind, Grass and gardens long ago With a love that draws them home Where things grow?

For an hour with green leaves, Love immortal leaped to flame, From the earth into the night Old hearts came.

What are you, fireflies, That come as daylight dies?

THE LITTLE GHOST: EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

I knew her for a little ghost That in my garden walked; The wall is high--higher than most-- And the green gate was locked.

And yet I did not think of that Till after she was gone-- I knew her by the broad white hat, All ruffled, she had on.

By the dear ruffles round her feet, By her small hands that hung In their lace mitts, austere and sweet, Her gown's white folds among.

I watched to see if she would stay, What she would do--and oh! She looked as if she liked the way I let my garden grow!

She bent above my favorite mint With conscious garden grace, She smiled and smiled--there was no hint Of sadness in her face.

She held her gown on either side To let her slippers show, And up the walk she went with pride, The way great ladies go.

And where the wall is built in new And is of ivy bare She paused--then opened and passed through A gate that once was there.

HAUNTED: LOUIS UNTERMEYER

Between the moss and stone The lonely lilies rise; Wasted and overgrown The tangled garden lies. Weeds climb about the stoop And clutch the crumbling walls; The drowsy grasses droop-- The night wind falls.

The place is like a wood; No sign is there to tell Where rose and iris stood That once she loved so well. Where phlox and asters grew, A leafless thornbush stands, And shrubs that never knew Her tender hands....

Over the broken fence The moonbeams trail their shrouds; Their tattered cerements Cling to the gauzy clouds, In ribbons frayed and thin-- And startled by the light Silence shrinks deeper in The depths of night.

Useless lie spades and rakes; Rust's on the garden-tools. Yet, where the moonlight makes Nebulous silver pools A ghostly shape is cast-- Something unseen has stirred.... Was it a breeze that passed? Was it a bird?

Dead roses lift their heads Out of a grassy tomb; From ruined pansy-beds A thousand pansies bloom. The gate is opened wide-- The garden that has been Now blossoms like a bride.... _Who entered in?_

GHOSTS: MADISON CAWEIN

Low, weed-climbed cliffs, o'er which at noon The sea-mists swoon: Wind-twisted pines, through which the crow Goes winging slow: Dim fields the sower never sows, Or reaps or mows: And near the sea a ghostly house of stone Where all is old and lone.

A garden, falling in decay, Where statues gray Peer, broken, out of tangled weed And thorny seed; Satyr and Nymph, that once made love By walk and grove: And, near a fountain, shattered, green with mould, A sundial, lichen-old.

Like some sad life bereft, To musing left, The house stands: love and youth Both gone, in sooth: But still it sits and dreams: And round it seems Some memory of the past, still young and fair, Haunting each crumbling stair.

And suddenly one dimly sees, Come through the trees, A woman, like a wild moss-rose: A man, who goes Softly: and by the dial They kiss a while: Then drowsily the mists blow round them, wan, And they like ghosts are gone.

THE THREE GHOSTS: THEODOSIA GARRISON

The three ghosts on the lonely road, Spake each to one another, "Whence came that stain upon your mouth No lifted hand can cover?" "From eating of forbidden fruit, Brother, my brother."

The three ghosts on the sunless road, Spake each to one another, "Whence came that red burn on your foot No dust or ash may cover?" "I stamped a neighbor's hearth-flame out, Brother, my brother."

The three ghosts on the windless road, Spake each to one another, "Whence came that blood upon thy hand No other hand may cover?" "From breaking of a woman's heart, Brother, my brother."

"Yet on the earth, clean men we walked, Glutton and thief and lover, White flesh and fair, it hid our stains, That no man might discover," Naked the soul goes up to God, Brother, my brother.

"YOU KNOW THE OLD, WHILE I KNOW THE NEW"

AFTER DEATH: CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept And strewn with rushes; rosemary and may Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay, Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept. He leaned above me, thinking that I slept And could not hear him; but I heard him say, "Poor child, poor child": and as he turned away Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept. He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold That hid my face, or take my hand in his, Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head: He did not love me living; but once dead He pitied me; and very sweet it is To know he still is warm though I am cold.

THE PASSER-BY: EDITH M. THOMAS

Step lightly across the floor, And somewhat more tender be.

There were many that passed my door, Many that sought after me. I gave them the passing word-- Ah, why did I give thee more? I gave thee what could not be heard, What had not been given before; The beat of my heart I gave.... And I give thee this flower on my grave.

My face in the flower thou mayst see. Step lightly across the floor.

AT HOME: CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

When I was dead, my spirit turned To seek the much-frequented house. I passed the door, and saw my friends Feasting beneath green orange-boughs; From hand to hand they pushed the wine, They sucked the pulp of plum and peach; They sang, they jested, and they laughed, For each was loved of each.

I listened to their honest chat. Said one, "To-morrow we shall be Plod-plod along the featureless sands, And coasting miles and miles of sea." Said one, "Before the turn of tide We will achieve the eyrie-seat." Said one, "To-morrow shall be like To-day, but much more sweet."

"To-morrow," said they, strong with hope, And dwelt upon the pleasant way: "To-morrow," cried they one and all, While no one spoke of yesterday. Their life stood full at blessed noon; I, only I had passed away: "To-morrow and to-day," they cried; I was of yesterday.

I shivered comfortless, but cast No chill across the tablecloth; I, all-forgotten, shivered, sad To stay and yet to part how loth: I passed from the familiar room, I whom from love had passed away, Like the remembrance of a guest That tarrieth but a day.

THE RETURN: MINNA IRVING

I pushed the tangled grass away And lifted up the stone, And flitted down the churchyard path With grasses overgrown. I halted at my mother's door And shook the rusty catch-- "The wind is rising fast," she said, "It rattles at the latch."

I crossed the street and paused again Before my husband's house, My baby sat upon his knee As quiet as a mouse. I pulled the muslin curtain by, He rose the blinds to draw-- "I feel a draught upon my back, The night is cold and raw."

I met a man who loved me well In days ere I was wed, He did not hear, he did not see, So silently I fled. But when I found my poor old dog, Though blind and deaf was he, And feeble with his many years, He turned and followed me.

THE ROOM'S WIDTH: ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD

I think if I should cross the room, Far as fear, Should stand beside you like a thought-- Touch you, dear,

Like a fancy--to your sad heart It would seem That my vision passed and prayed you, Or my dream.

Then you would look with lonely eyes-- Lift your head-- And you would stir and sigh, and say, "She is dead."

Baffled by death and love, I lean Through the gloom. O Lord of life! Am I forbid To cross the room?

HAUNTED: DON MARQUIS

A ghost is a freak of a sick man's brain? Then why do you start and shiver so? That's the sob and drip of a leaky drain? But it sounds like another noise we know! The heavy drops drummed red and slow, The drops ran down as slow as fate-- Do ye hear them still?--it was long ago!-- But here in the shadows I wait, and wait!

Spirits there be that pass in peace; Mine passed in a whirl of wrath and dole; And the hour that your choking breath shall cease I will get my grip on your naked soul-- Nor pity may stay nor prayer cajole-- I would drag ye whining from Hell's own gate: To me, to me, ye must pay the toll! And here in the shadows I wait, I wait!

The dead they are dead, they are out of the way? And the ghost is a whim of an ailing mind? Then why did ye whiten with fear to-day When ye heard a voice in the calling wind? Why did ye falter and look behind? At the creeping mists when the hour grew late? Ye would see my face were ye stricken blind! And here in the shadows I wait, I wait!

Drink and forget, make merry and boast, But the boast rings false and the jest is thin-- In the hour that I meet you ghost to ghost, Stripped of the flesh that you skulk within, Stripped to the coward soul 'ware of its sin, Ye shall learn, ye shall learn, whether dead men hate! Ah, a weary time has the waiting been, But here in the shadows I wait, I wait!

"MY LOVE THAT WAS SO TRUE"

ONE OUT-OF-DOORS: SARAH PIATT

A ghost--is he afraid to be a ghost? A ghost? It breaks my heart to think of it. Something that wavers in the moon, at most; Something that wanders: something that must flit From morning, from the bird's breath and the dew. Ah, if I knew,--ah, if I only knew!

Something so weirdly wan, so weirdly still! O yearning lips that our warm blood can flush, Follow it with your kisses, if you will; O beating heart, think of its helpless hush. Oh, bitterest of all, to feel we fear Something that was so near, that was so dear!

No--no, he is no ghost; he could not be; Something that hides, forlorn, in frost and brier; Something shut outside in the dark, while we Laugh and forget by the familiar fire; Something whose moan we call the wind, whose tears Sound but as rain-drops in our human ears.

SAILING BEYOND SEAS: JEAN INGELOW

Methought the stars were blinking bright, And the old brig's sail unfurl'd; I said, "I will sail to my love this night At the other side of the world." I stepp'd abroad,--we sail'd so fast,-- The sun shot up from the bourn; But a dove that perch'd upon the mast Did mourn and mourn and mourn. O fair dove! O fond dove! And dove with the white, white breast, Let me alone, the dream is my own, And my heart is full of rest.

My true love fares on this great hill, Feeding his sheep for aye; I look'd in his hut, but all was still, My love was gone away. I went to gaze in the forest creek, And the dove mourn'd on apace; No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek Rose up to show me his place. O last love! O first love! My love with the true, true heart, To think I have come to this your home, And yet--we are apart!

My love! He stood at my right hand, His eyes were grave and sweet. Methought he said, "In this far land, O, is it thus we meet? Ah, maid most dear, I am not here; I have no place,--no part,-- No dwelling more by sea or shore, But only in thy heart." O fair dove! O fond dove! Till night rose over the bourn, The dove on the mast, as we sail'd fast, Did mourn and mourn and mourn.

BETRAYAL: ALINE KILMER

Four hundred times the glass had run And seven times the moon had died Since my lover rode in his silver mail Away from his new-made bride.

A ghost-light gleamed in the field beyond And a wet, wet wind blew in from the sea When out of the mist my own true love Came up and stood by me.

My heart leapt up that had been still, My voice rang out that had been sad, Till my sister left her busy wheel To see what made me glad.

She saw my arms about his neck, She saw my head upon his breast. Oh, why did my sister hate me so That she would not let me rest?

Loud then laughed my cruel sister, False and fair of face was she, "O that is never your own true love, For he lies dead in a far countrie!"

I loosed the clasp of my clinging arms And his shining face grew still and white; My tears ran down like bitter rain As I watched him fade from sight.

May the salt sea bury me in its waves, May the mountains fall and cover my head, Since I had not faith in my only love When he came back from the dead.

THE TRUE LOVER: A.E. HOUSMAN

The lad came to the door at night, When lovers crown their vows, And whistled soft and out of sight In shadow of the boughs.

"I shall not vex you with my face Henceforth, my love, for aye; So take me in your arms a space Before the east is gray.

"When I from hence away am past I shall not find a bride, And you shall be the first and last I ever lay beside."

She heard and went and knew not why; Her heart to his she laid; Light was the air beneath the sky But dark under the shade.

"Oh, do you breathe, lad, that your breast Seems not to rise and fall, And here upon my bosom prest There beats no heart at all?"

"Oh, loud, my girl, it once would knock, You should have felt it then; But since for you I stopped the clock It never goes again."

"Oh, lad, what is it, lad, that drops Wet from your neck on mine? What is it falling on my lips, My lad, that tastes like brine?"

"Oh like enough 'tis blood, my dear, For when the knife has slit The throat across from ear to ear 'Twill bleed because of it."

Under the stars the air was light But dark below the boughs, The still air of the speechless night, When lovers crown their vows.

HAUNTED: G.B. STUART