Cowards, 'tis said, in certain situations,
Derive a sort of courage from despair,
And then perform, from downright desperation,
Much more than many a bolder man would dare.
Nick saw the Ghost was getting in a passion,
And therefore, groping till he found the chair,
Seized on his awl, crept softly out of bed,
And follow'd quaking where the Spectre led.

And down the winding-stair, with noiseless tread,
The tenant of the tomb pass'd slowly on,
Each mazy turning of the humble shed

Seem'd to his step at once familiar grown,
So safe and sure the labyrinth did he tread

As though the domicile had been his own, Though Nick himself, in passing through the shop, Had almost broke his nose against the mop.

Despite its wooden bolt, with jarring sound,
The door upon its hinges open flew ;
And forth the Spirit issued, yet around

It turn'd as if its follower's fears it knew,
And, once more beckoning, pointed to the mound,

The antique keep, on which the bright moon threw
With such effulgence her mild silvery gleam,
The visionary form seem'd melting in her beam.

Beneath a pond'rous archway's sombre shade,
Where once the huge portcullis swung sublime,
Mid ivied battlements in ruin laid,

Sole, sad memorials of the olden time,

The Phantom held its way,—and though afraid
Even of the owls that sung their vesper chime,
Pale Nicholas pursued, its steps attending,
And wondering what on earth it all would end in.

Within the mouldering fabric's deep recess

At length they reach a court obscure and lone; It seem'd a drear and desolate wilderness,

The blacken'd walls with ivy all o'ergrown;
The night-bird shriek'd her note of wild distress,
Disturb'd upon her solitary throne,

As though indignant mortal step should dare,
So led, at such an hour, to venture there!

The Apparition paused, and would have spoke,
Pointing to what Nick thought an iron ring,
But then a neighbouring chaunticleer; awoke,
And loudly 'gan his early matins sing;
And then "it started like a guilty thing,"
As his shrill clarion the silence broke.

'Tis known how much dead gentlefolks eschew The appalling sound of "Cock-a-doodle-do!”.

The Vision was no more-and Nick alone-
"His streamers waving" in the midnight wind,
Which through the ruins ceased not to groan;
-His garment, too, was somewhat short behind,-
And, worst of all, he knew not where to find

The ring, which made him most his fate bemoan.
The iron ring,—no doubt of some trap door,
'Neath which the old dead miser kept his store.

"What's to be done?" he cried, ""Twere vain to stay Here in the dark without a single clue.

Oh for a candle now, or moonlight ray! 'Fore George, I'm vastly puzzled what to do." (Then clapp'd his hand behind)-""Tis chilly tooI'll mark the spot, and come again by day. What can I mark it by ?-Oh, here 's the wallThe mortar's yielding — Here I'll stick my awl!"

Then rose from earth to sky a withering shriek,
A loud, a long-protracted note of woe,
Such as when tempests roar, and timbers creak,
And o'er the side the masts in thunder go;
While on the deck resistless billows break,

And drag their victims to the gulphs below;-
Such was the scream when, for the want of candle,
Nick Mason drove his awl in up to the handle.

Scared by his Lady's heart-appalling cry,

Vanish'd at once poor Mason's golden dream. For dream it was; and all his visions high,

Of wealth and grandeur, fled before that scream

And still he listens with averted eye,

When gibing neighbours make "the Ghost" their theme; While ever from that hour they all declare

That Mrs. Mason used a cushion in her chair!

Confound not, I beseech thee, reader, the subject of the following monody with the hapless hero of the tea-urn, Cupid, of "Yow-Yow"-ing memory. Tray was an attached and sincere friend of many years' standing. Most people worth loving have had a mute favourite or two of this kind; Lord Byron says he“never had but one, and here he (the dog, not the nobleman) lies!"