Classic Poem

(From " Tales of the Hall " )

The Brothers spoke of Ghosts, — a favourite theme
With those who love to reason or to dream;
And they, as greater men were wont to do,
Felt strong desire to think the stories true:
Stories of spirits freed, who came to prove
To spirits bound in flesh that yet they love,
To give them notice of the things below,
Which we must wonder how they came to know,
Or, known, would think of coming to relate
To creatures who are tried by unknown fate.

" Warning, " said Richard, " seems the only thing
That would a spirit on an errand bring:
To turn a guilty mind from wrong to right
A ghost might come, at least I think it might. "

" But, " said the Brother, " if we here are tried,
A spirit sent would put that law aside:
It gives to some advantage others need,
Or hurts the sinner should it not succeed:
If from the dead, said Dives, one were sent
To warn my brethren, sure they would repent;
But Abraham answered, If they now reject
The guides they have, no more would that effect;
Their doubts too obstinate for grace would prove,
For wonder hardens hearts it fails to move.

" Suppose a sinner in an hour of gloom,
And let a ghost with all its horrors come;
From lips unmoved let solemn accents flow,
Solemn his gesture be, his motion slow;
Let the waved hand and threatening look impart
Truth to the mind and terror to the heart;
And, when the form is fading to the view,
Let the convicted man cry, " This is true!"

" Alas! how soon would doubts again invade
The willing mind, and sins again persuade!
I saw it — What? — I was awake, but how?
Not as I am, or I should see it now:
It spoke, I think, — I thought, at least it spoke, —
And looked alarming — yes, I felt the look.
But then in sleep those horrid forms arise,
That the soul sees, — and, we suppose, the eyes, —
And the soul hears, — the senses then thrown by,
She is herself the ear, herself the eye;
A mistress so will free her servile race
For their own tasks, and take herself the place:
In sleep what forms will ductile fancy take,
And what so common as to dream awake?
On others thus do ghostly guests intrude?
Or why am I by such advice pursued?
One out of millions who exist, and why
They know not — cannot know — and such am I;
And shall two beings of two worlds, to meet,
The laws of one, perhaps of both, defeat?
It cannot be. — But if some being lives
Who such kind warning to a favourite gives,
Let him these doubts from my dull spirit clear,
And once again, expected guest! appear.

" And if a second time the power complied,
Why is a third, and why a fourth, denied?
Why not a warning ghost for ever at our side?
Ah, foolish being! thou hast truth enough, —
Augmented guilt would rise on greater proof;
Blind and imperious passion disbelieves,
Or madly scorns the warning it receives,
Or looks for pardon ere the ill be done,
Because 'tis vain to strive our fate to shun;
In spite of ghosts, predestined woes would come,
And warning add new terrors to our doom.

" Yet there are tales that would remove our doubt,
The whispered tales that circulate about,
That in some noble mansion take their rise,
And, told with secrecy and awe, surprise:
It seems not likely people should advance,
For falsehood's sake, such train of circumstance;
Then the ghosts bear them with a ghost-like grace,
That suits the person, character, and place.

" But let us something of the kind recite:
What think you, now, of Lady Barbara's sprite? "

" I know not what to think, but I have heard
A ghost, to warn her or advise, appeared;
And that she sought a friend before she died,
To whom she might the awful fact confide,
Who sealed and secret should the story keep
Till Lady Barbara slepTher final sleep,
In that close bed that never spirit shakes,
Nor ghostly visitor the sleeper wakes. "

" Yes, I can give that story, not so well
As your old woman would the legend tell,
But as the facts are stated; and now hear
How ghosts advise, and widows persevere. "

When her lord died, who had so kind a heart,
That any woman would have grieved to part,
It had such influence on his widow's mind,
That she the pleasures of the world resigned,
Young as she was, and from the busy town
Came to the quiet of a village down;
Not as insensible to joys, but still
With a subdued but half-rebellious will;
For she had passions warm, and feeling strong,
With a right mind, that dreaded to be wrong; —
Yet she had wealth to tie her to the place
Where it procures delight and veils disgrace;
Yet she had beauty to engage the eye,
A widow still in her minority;
Yet she had merit worthy men to gain,
And yeTher hand no merit could obtain;
For, though secluded, there were trials made,
When he who softened most could not persuade;
A while she hearkened as her swain proposed,
And then his suit with strong refusal closed.

" Thanks, and farewell! — give credit to my word,
That I shall die the widow of my lord;
'Tis my own will, I now prefer the state, —
If mine should change, it is the will of fate. "

Such things were spoken, and the hearers cried,
" 'Tis very strange, — perhaps she may be tried. "

The lady passed her time in taking air,
In working, reading, charities, and prayer;
In the last duties she received the aid
Of an old friend, a priest, with whom she prayed;
And to his mansion with a purpose went,
That there should life be innocently spent;
Yet no cold votary of the cloister she,
Warm her devotion, warm her charity;
The face the index of a feeling mind,
And her whole conduct rational and kind.

Though rich and noble, she was pleased to slide
Into the habits of her reverend guide,
And so attended to his girls and boys,
She seemed a mother in her fears and joys;
On her they looked with fondness, something checked
By her appearance, that engaged respect;
For still she dressed as one of higher race,
And her sweet smiles had dignity and grace.

George was her favourite, and it gave her joy
To indulge and to instruct the darling boy;
To watch, to soothe, to check the forward child,
Who was at once affectionate and wild;
Happy and grateful for her tender care,
And pleased her thoughts and company to share.

George was a boy with spirit strong and high,
With handsome face, and penetrating eye;
O'er his broad forehead hung his locks of brown,
That gave a spirit to his boyish frown.
" My little man, " were words that she applied
To him, and he received with growing pride;
Her darling even from his infant years
Had something touching in his smiles and tears;
And in his boyish manners he began
To show the pride that was not made for man;
But it became the child, the mother cried,
And the kind lady said it was not pride.

George, to his cost, though sometimes to his praise,
Was quite a hero in these early days,
And would return from heroes just as stout,
Blood in his crimson cheek, and blood without.
" What! he submit to vulgar boys and low —
He bear an insult, he forget a blow!
They called him Parson — let his father bear
His own reproach, it was his proper care:
He was no parson, buThe still would teach
The boys their manners, and yet would not preach. "

The father, thoughtful of the time foregone,
Was loth to damp the spirit of his son;
Remembering he himself had early laurels won;
The mother, frightened, begged him to refrain,
And not his credit or his linen stain;
While the kind friend so gently blamed the deed,
He smiled in tears, and wished her to proceed;
For the boy pleased her, and that roguish eye
And daring look were cause of many a sigh,
When she had thought how much would such quick temper try:
And oft she felt a kind of gathering gloom,
Sad, and prophetic of the ills to come.

Years fled unmarked: the lady taught no more
The adopted tribe as she was wont before;
But by her help the school the lasses sought,
And by the Vicar's self the boy was taught;
Not unresisting when that cursed Greek
Asked so much time for words that none will speak.

" What can men worse for mortal brain contrive
Than thus a hard dead language to revive!
Heavens, if a language once be fairly dead,
Let it be buried, not preserved and read,
The bane of every boy to decent station bred;
If any good these crabbed books contain,
Translate them well, and let them then remain;
To one huge vault convey the useless store,
Then lose the key, and never find it more. "

Something like this the lively boy expressed,
When Homer was his torment and his jest.

" George, " said the father, " can at pleasure seize
The poinThe wishes, and with too much ease;
And hence, depending on his powers, and vain,
He wastes the time thaThe will sigh to gain. "
The partial widow thought the wasted days
He would recover, urged by love and praise;
And thus absolved, the boy, with grateful mind,
Repaid a love so useful and so blind:
Her angry words he loved, although he feared,
And words not angry doubly-kind appeared.

George, then on manhood verging, felt the charms
Of war, and kindled at the world's alarms;
Yet war was then, though spreading wide and far,
A state of peace to what has since been war;
'Twas then some dubious claim at sea or land,
That placed a weapon in a warrior's hand;
But in these times the causes of our strife
Are hearth and altar, liberty and life.

George, when from college he returned, and heard
His father's questions, cool and shy appeared.
" Who had the honours? " — " Honour! " said the youth,
" Honour at college! — very good, in truth! "
" What hours to study did he give? " — He gave
Enough to feel they made him like a slave.
In fact, the Vicar found, if George should rise,
'Twas not by college rules and exercise.

" At least the time for your degree abide,
And be ordained, " the man of peace replied;
" Then you may come and aid me while I keep,
And watch, and shear the hereditary sheep;
Choose then your spouse. " — ThaTheard the youth, and sighed,
Nor to aught else attended or replied.

George had of late indulged unusual fears
And dangerous hopes: he wept unconscious tears; —
Whether for camp or college, well he knew
He must at present bid his friends adieu;
His father, mother, sisters, could he part
With these, and feel no sorrow at his heart?
But from that lovely lady could he go?
That fonder, fairer, dearer mother? — No!
For while his father spoke, he fixed his eyes
On that dear face, and felt a warmth arise,
A trembling flush of joy, thaThe could ill disguise —
Then asked himself from whence this growing bliss,
This new-found joy, and all that waits on this?
" Why sinks that voice so sweetly in mine ear?
What makes it now a livelier joy to hear?
Why gives that touch? — still, still do I retain
The fierce delight that tingled through each vein:
Why aTher presence with such quickness flows
The vital current? — Well a lover knows.

" Oh! tell me not of years, — can she be old?
Those eyes, those lips, can man unmoved behold?
Has time that bosom chilled? are cheeks so rosy cold?
No, she is young, or I her love to engage
Will grow discreet, and that will seem like age:
But speak it not; Death's equalising arm
Levels not surer than Love's stronger charm,
That bids all inequalities be gone,
That laughs at rank, that mocks comparison.

" There is not young or old, if Love decrees;
He levels orders, he confounds degrees:
There is not fair, or dark, or short, or tall,
Or grave, or sprightly — Love reduces all;
He makes unite the pensive and the gay,
Gives something here, takes something there away;
From each abundant good a portion takes,
And for each want a compensation makes;
Then tell me not of years — Love, power divine,
Takes, as he wills, from hers, and gives to mine. "

And she, in truth, was lovely — Time had strown
No snows on her, though he so long had flown;
The purest damask blossomed in her cheek,
The eyes said all that eyes are wont to speak:
Her pleasing person she with care adorned,
Nor arts that stay the flying graces scorned;
Nor held it wrong these graces to renew,
Or give the fading rose its opening hue;
Yet few there were who needed less the art
To hide an error, or a grace impart.

George, yet a child, her faultless form admired,
And called his fondness love, as truth required;
But now, when conscious of the secret flame,
His bosom's pain, he dared not give the name;
In her the mother's milder passion grew,
Tender she was, but she was placid too;
From him the mild and filial love was gone,
And a strong passion came in triumph on.

" Will she, " he cried, " this impious love allow?
And, once my mother, be my mistress now?
The parent-spouse? how far the thought from her!
And how can I the daring wish aver?
When first I speak it, how will those dear eyes
Gleam with awakened horror and surprise;
Will she not, angry and indignant, fly
From my imploring call, and bid me die?
Will she not shudder at the thought, and say,
My son! and lifTher eyes to heaven, and pray?

" Alas! I fear — and yet my soul she won
While she with fond endearments called me son!
Then first I felt — yet knew that I was wrong —
This hope, at once so guilty and so strong:
She gave — I feel it now — a mother's kiss,
And quickly fancy took a bolder bliss;
But hid the burning blush, for fear that eye
Should see the transport, and the bliss deny:
O! when she knows the purpose I conceal,
When my fond wishes to her bosom steal,
How will that angel fear? how will the woman feel?

" And yet, perhaps, this instant, while I speak,
She knows the pain I feel, the cure I seek;
Better than I she may my feelings know,
And nurse the passion that she dares not show;
She reads the look, — and sure my eyes have shown
To her the power and triumph of her own;
And in maternal love she veils the flame
That she will heal with joy, yeThear with shame.

" Come, let me then — no more a son — reveal
The daring hope, and for her favour kneel;
Let me in ardent speech my meanings dress,
And, while I mourn the fault, my love confess;
And, once confessed, no more that hope resign,
For she or misery henceforth must be mine.
O! what confusion shall I see advance
On that dear face, responsive to my glance!
Sure she can love! "
In fact, the youth was right;
She could, but love was dreadful in her sight;
Love like a spectre in her view appeared,
The nearer he approached the more she feared.

But knew she, then, this dreaded love? She guessed
ThaThe had guilt — she knew he had not rest;
She saw a fear that she could ill define,
And nameless terrors in his looks combine;
It is a state that cannot long endure,
And yet both parties dreaded to be sure.

All views were past of priesthood and a gown,
George, fixed on glory, now prepared for town;
But first this mighty hazard must be run,
And more than glory either lost or won:
Yet, what was glory? Could he win thaTheart
And gain that hand, what cause was there to part?
Her love afforded all that life affords —
Honour and fame were phantasies and words.

BuThe must see her — She alone was seen
In the still evening of a day serene:
In the deep shade beyond the garden walk
They met, and, talking, ceased and feared to talk;
At length she spoke of parent's love, — and now
He hazards all. " No parent, lady, thou!
None, none to me! but looks so fond and mild
Would well become the parent of my child. "

She gasped for breath — then sat as one resolved
On some high act, and then the means revolved.

" It cannot be, my George, my child, my son!
The thought is misery! — Guilt and misery shun:
Far from us both be such design, oh, far!
Let it not pain us at the awful bar,
Where souls are tried, where known the mother's part
That I sustain, and all of either heart.
To wed with thee I must all shame efface,
And part with female dignity and grace:
Was I not told, by one who knew so well
This rebel heart, that it must not rebel?
Were I not warned, yet Reason's voice would cry,
" Retreat, resolve, and from the danger fly!"
If Reason spoke not, yet would woman's pride —
A woman will by better counsel guide;
And should both Pride and Prudence plead in vain,
There is a warning that must still remain,
And, though the heart rebelled, would ever cry " Refrain!" "

He heard, he grieved: so checked, the eager youth
Dared not again repeat the offensive truth,
But stopped, and fixed on that loved face an eye
Of pleading passion, trembling to reply:
And that reply was hurried, was expressed
With bursts of sorrow from a troubled breast;
He could not yet forbear the tender suit,
And dare not speak — his eloquence was mute.

But this not long, — again the passion rose
In him, in her the spirit to oppose:
Yet was she firm; and he, who feared the calm
Of resolution, purposed to alarm,
And make her dread a passion strong and wild —
He feared her firmness while her looks were mild:
Therefore he strongly, warmly urged his prayer,
Till she, less patient, urged him to forbear.

" I tell thee, George, as I have told before,
I feel a mother's love, and feel no more;
A child I bore thee in my arms, and how
Could I — did prudence yield — receive thee now? "

ATher remonstrance hope revived, for oft
He found her words severe, her accents soft;
In eyes that threatened tears of pity stood,
And truth she made as gracious as she could; —
But, when she found the dangerous youth would seek
His peace alone, and still his wishes speak,
Fearful she grew, that, opening thus his heart,
He might to hers a dangerous warmth impart;
All her objections slight to him appeared, —
But one she had, and now it must be heard.

" Yes, it must be! and he shall understand
What powers, that are not of the world, command;
So shall he cease, and I in peace shall live — "
Sighing she spoke — " that widowhood can give! "
Then to her lover turned, and gravely said,
" Let due attention to my words be paid:
Meet me to-morrow, and resolve to obey; "
Then named the hour and place, and wenTher way.
Before that hour, or moved by spirit vain
Of woman's wish to triumph and complain,
She had his parents summoned, and had shown
Their son's strong wishes, nor concealed her own:
" And do you give, " she said, " a parent's aid
To make the youth of his strange love afraid;
And, be it sin or not, be all the shame displayed. "

The good old Pastor wondered, seemed to grieve,
And looked suspicious on this child of Eve:
He judged his boy, though wild, had never dared
To talk of love, had not rebuke been spared;
BuThe replied, in mild and tender tone,
" It is not sin, and therefore shame has none. "

The different ages of the pair he knew,
And quite as well their different fortunes too:
A meek, just man; but difference in his sight
That made the match unequal made it right:
" His son, his friend, united and become
Of his own hearth — the comforts of his home —
Was it so wrong? Perhaps it was her pride
That felt the distance, and the youth denied? "

The blushing widow heard, and she retired,
Musing on whaTher ancient friend desired;
She could not, therefore, to the youth complain,
That his good father wished him to refrain;
She could not add, " Your parents, George, obey,
They will your absence " — no such will had they.

Now, in the appointed minute met the pair,
Foredoomed to meet: George made the lover's prayer, —
That was heard kindly; then the lady tried
For a calm spirit, felt it, and replied.

" George, that I love thee why should I suppress?
For 'tis a love that virtue may profess —
Parental, — frown not, — tender, fixed, sincere;
Thou art for dearer ties by much too dear,
And nearer must not be, thou art so very near:
Nay, does not reason, prudence, pride, agree,
Our very feelings, that it must not be?
Nay, look not so, — I shun the task no more,
But will to thee thy better self restore.

" Then hear, and hope not; to the tale I tell
Attend! obey me, and let all be well:
Love is forbid to me, and thou wilt find
All thy too ardent views must be resigned;
Then from thy bosom all such thoughts remove,
And spare the curse of interdicted love.
If doubts at first assail thee, wait a while,
Nor mock my sadness with satiric smile:
For, if not much of other worlds we know,
Nor how a spirit speaks in this below,
Still there is speech and intercourse; and now
The truth of what I tell I first avow, —
True will I be in all, and be attentive thou.

" I was a Ratcliffe, taught and trained to live
In all the pride that ancestry can give;
My only brother, when our mother died,
Filled the dear offices of friend and guide;
My father early taught us all he dared,
And for his bolder flights our minds prepared:
He read the works of deists, every book
From crabbed Hobbes to courtly Bolingbroke;
And when we understood not, he would cry,
" Let the expressions in your memory lie,
The light will soon break in, and you will find
Rest for your spirits, and be strong of mind!"

" Alas! however strong, however weak,
The rest was something we had still to seek!
He taught us duties of no arduous kind,
The easy morals of the doubtful mind;
He bade us all our childish fears control,
And drive the nurse and grandam from the soul;
Told us the word of God was all we saw,
And that the law of nature was his law;
This law of nature we might find abstruse,
But gain sufficient for our common use.
Thus by persuasion we our duties learned,
And were but little in the cause concerned.

" We lived in peace, in intellectual ease,
And thought that virtue was the way to please,
And pure morality and keeping free
From all the stains of vulgar villany.
But Richard, dear enthusiast! shunned reproach,
He let no stain upon his name encroach;
But fled the hated vice, was kind and just,
That all must love him, and that all might trust.

" Free, sad discourse was ours; we often sighed,
To think we could not in some truths confide.
Our father's final words gave no content,
We found not what his self-reliance meant.
To fix our faith some grave relations sought;
Doctrines and creeds of various kinds they brought,
And we as children heard what they as doctors taught.

" Some to the priest referred us, in whose book
No unbeliever could resisting look;
Others to some great preacher's, who could tame
The fiercest mind, and set the cold on flame;
For him no rival in dispute was found
Whom he could not confute or not confound.

" Some mystics told us of the sign and seal,
And what the Spirit would in time reveal,
If we had grace to wait, if we had hearts to feel:
Others, to Reason trusting, said, " Believe
As she directs, and what she proves receive;"
While many told us, " It is all but guess;
Stick to your church, and calmly acquiesce."

" Thus doubting, wearied, hurried, and perplexed,
This world was lost in thinking of the next:
When spoke my brother — " From my soul I hate
This clash of thought, this ever-doubting state;
For ever seeking certainty, yet blind
In our research, and puzzled when we find.
Could not some spirit, in its kindness, steal
Back to our world, and some dear truth reveal?
Say there is danger, — if it could be done,
Sure one would venture — I would be the one;
And when a spirit — much as spirits might —
I would to thee communicate my light!"

" I sought my daring brother to oppose,
But awful gladness in my bosom rose:
I feared my wishes; but through all my frame
A bold and elevating terror came:
Yet with dissembling prudence I replied,
" Know we the laws that may be thus defied?
Should the free spirit to the embodied tell
The precious secret, would it not rebel?"
Yet while I spoke I felt a pleasing glow
Suffuse my cheek at what I longed to know;
And I, like Eve transgressing, grew more bold,
And wished to hear a spirit and behold.

" " I have no friend," said he; " to not one man
Can I appear: but, love! to thee I can:
Who first shall die" — — I wept, — but " I agree
To all thou say'st, dear Richard! and would be
The first to wing my way, and bring my news to thee."

" Long we conversed, but not till we perceived
A gathering gloom — Our freedom gained, we grieved;
Above the vulgar, as we judged, in mind,
Below in peace, more sad as more refined;
'Twas joy, 'twas sin — Offenders at the time,
We felt the hurried pleasure of our crime,
With pain that crime creates, and this in both —
Our mind united as the strongest oath.

" O, my dear George! in ceasing to obey,
Misery and trouble meet us in our way!
I felt as one intruding in a scene
Where none should be, where none had ever been;
Like our first parent, I was new to sin,
But plainly felt its sufferings begin:
In nightly dreams I walked on soil unsound,
And in my day-dreams endless error found.

" With this dear brother I was doomed to part,
Who, with a husband, shared a troubled heart:
My lord I honoured; but I never proved
The maddening joy, the boast of some who loved:
It was a marriage that our friends professed
Would be most happy, and I acquiesced;
And we were happy, for our love was calm,
Not life's delicious essence, but its balm.
My brother left us — dear unhappy boy!
He never seemed to taste of earthly joy,
Never to live on earth, but ever strove
To gain some tidings of a world above.

" Parted from him, I found no more to please;
Ease was my object, and I dwelt in ease;
And thus in quiet, not perhaps content,
A year in wedlock — lingering time! — was spent.

" One night I slept not, but I courted sleep,
And forced my thoughts on tracks they could not keep;
Till nature, wearied in the strife, reposed.
And deep forgetfulness my wanderings closed.

" My lord was absent — distant from the bed
A pendant lamp its softened lustre shed;
But there was light that chased away the gloom,
And brought to view each object in the room:
These I observed ere yet I sank in sleep,
That, if disturbed not, had been long and deep.

" I was awakened by some being nigh,
It seemed some voice, — and gave a timid cry;
When sounds, that I describe not, slowly broke
On my attention — — " Be composed, and look!"
I strove, and I succeeded; looked with awe,
But yet with firmness, and my brother saw.

" George, why that smile? — By all that God has done,
By that great Spirit, by the blessed Son,
By the one holy Three, by the thrice holy One,
I saw my brother, — saw him by my bed, —
And every doubt in full conviction fled!
It was his own mild spirit — He a while
Waited my calmness with benignant smile.
So softly shines the veiled sun, till past
The cloud, and light upon the world is cast:
That looked composed and softened I surveyed,
And met the glance fraternal less afraid:
Though in those looks was something of command,
And traits of what I feared to understand.

" Then spoke the spirit — George, I pray, attend —
" First, let all doubts of thy religion end:
The word revealed is true: inquire no more;
Believe in meekness, and with thanks adore:
Thy priest attend, but not in all rely,
And to objectors seek for no reply;
Truth, doubt, and error will be mixed below —
Be thou content the greater truths to know,
And in obedience rest thee — For thy life
Thou needest counsel — now a happy wife,
A widow soon! and then, my sister, then,
Think not of marriage, think no more of men: —
Life will have comforts; thou wilt much enjoy
Of moderate good; then do not this destroy
Fear much, and wed no more; by passion led,
Shouldst thou again" — art thou attending? — " wed,
Care in thy ways will growl, and anguish haunt thy bed:
A brother's warning on thy heart engrave:
Thou art a mistress — then be not a slave!
Shouldst thou again that hand in fondness give,
What life of misery art thou doomed to live!
How wilt thou weep, lament, implore, complain!
How wilt thou meet derision and disdain!
And pray to Heaven in doubt, and kneel to man in vain!
Thou readest of woes to tender bosoms sent —
Thine shall with tenfold agony be rent;
Increase of anguish shall new years bestow,
Pain shall on thought and grief on reason grow,
And this the advice I give increase the ill I show."

" " A second marriage! — No! — by all that's dear!"
I cried aloud — The spirit bade me hear.
" There will be a trial, — how I must not say,
Perhaps I cannot — listen, and obey!
Free is thy will — the event I cannot see,
Distinctly cannot, but thy will is free.
Come, weep not, sister — spirits can but guess,
And not ordain — but do not wed distress;
For who would rashly venture on a snare?"

" " I swear!" I answered. — " No, thou must not swear,"
He said, or I had sworn; but still the vow
Was past, was in my mind, and there is now:
Never! O, never: — Why that sullen air?
Thinkest thou — ungenerous! — I would wed despair?

" Was it not told me thus? — and then I cried,
" Art thou in bliss?" — but nothing he replied,
Save of my fate, for thaThe came to show,
Nor of aught else permitted me to know.
" Forewarned, forearm thee, and thy way pursue,
Safe, if thou wilt, not flowery — now, adieu!"

" " Nay, go not thus," I cried, " for this will seem
The work of sleep, a mere impressive dream;
Give me some token, that I may indeed
From the suggestions of my doubts be freed!"

" " Be this a token — ere the week be fled
Shall tidings greet thee from the newly dead."

" " Nay, but," I said, with courage not my own,
" O! be some signal of thy presence shown;
Let not this visit with the rising day
Pass, and be melted like a dream away."

" " O, woman! woman! ever anxious still
To gain the knowledge, not to curb the will!
Have I not promised? — Child of sin, attend —
Make not a lying spirit of thy friend:
Give me thy hand!" — I gave it, for my soul
Was now grown ardent, and above control;
Eager I stretched it forth, and felt the hold
Of shadowy fingers, more than icy cold:
A nameless pressure on my wrist was made,
And instant vanished the beloved shade!
Strange it will seem, but, ere the morning came,
I slept, nor felt disorder in my frame:
Then came a dream — I saw my father's shade,
But not with awe like that my brother's made;
And he began — " What! made a convert, child?
Have they my favourite by their creed beguiled?
Thy brother's weakness I could well foresee,
But had, my girl, more confidence in thee:
Art thou, indeed, before their ark to bow?
I smiled before, but I am angry now:
Thee will they bind by threats, and thou wilt shake
At tales of terror that the miscreants make:
Between the bigot and enthusiast led,
Thou hast a world of miseries to dread.
Think for thyself, nor let the knaves or fools
Rob thee of reason, and prescribe thee rules."

" Soon as I woke, and could my thoughts collect,
What can I think, I cried, or what reject?
Was it my brother? Aid me, power divine!
Have I not seen him, lefThe not a sign?
Did I not then the placid features trace
That now remain — the air, the eye, the face?
And then my father — but how different seem
These visitations — this, indeed, a dream!

" Then for that token on my wrist — 'tis here,
And very slight to you it must appear;
Here, I'll withdraw the bracelet — 'tis a speck!
No more! but 'tis upon my life a check. "

" O! lovely all, and like its sister arm!
Call this a check, dear lady? 'tis a charm —
A slight, an accidental mark — no more. "
" Slight as it is, it was not there before:
Then was there weakness, and I bound it — — Nay!
This is infringement — take those lips away!

" On the fourth day came letters, and I cried,
Richard is dead, and named the day he died:
A proof of knowledge, true! but one, alas! of pride.
The signs to me were brought, and not my lord,
But I, impatient, waited not the word;
And much he marvelled, reading of the night
In which the immortal spirit took its flight.

" Yes! I beheld my brother at my bed
The hour he died! the instanThe was dead —
His presence now I see! now trace him as he fled.

" Ah! fly me, George, in very pity, fly;
Thee I reject, but yield thee reasons why;
Our fate forbids, — the counsel Heaven has sent
We must adopt, or grievously repent;
And I adopt. " — — George humbly bowed, and sighed,
But, lost in thought, he looked not nor replied;
Yet feebly uttered in his sad adieu,
" I must not doubt thy truth, but perish if thou'rt true. "
But when he thought alone, his terror gone
Of the strange story, better views came on.

" Nay, my enfeebled heart, be not dismayed!
A boy again, am I of ghosts afraid?
Does she believe it? Say she does believe;
Is she not born of error and of Eve?
Oh! there is lively hope I may the cause retrieve.

" " If you re-wed" — — exclaimed the Ghost. For what
Puts he the case, if marry she will not?
He knows her fate — but what am I about?
Do I believe? — 'tis certain I have doubt,
And so has she, — what therefore will she do?
She the predicted fortune will pursue,
And by the event will judge if her strange dream was true;
The strong temptation to her thought applied
Will gain new strength, and will not be denied;
The very threat against the thing we love
Will the vexed spirit to resistance move;
With vows to virtue weakness will begin,
And fears of sinning let in thoughts of sin. "

Strong in her sense of weakness, now withdrew
The cautious lady from the lover's view;
But she perceived the looks of all were changed, —
Her kind old friends grew peevish and estranged:
A fretful spirit reigned, and discontent
From room to room in sullen silence went;
And the kind widow was distressed aTheart
To think that she no comfort could impart:
" BuThe will go, " she said, " and he will strive
In fields of glorious energy to drive
Love from his bosom. — Yes, I then may stay,
And all will thank me on a future day. "

So judged the lady, nor appeared to grieve,
Till the young soldier came to take his leave;
But not of all assembled — No! he found
His gentle sisters all in sorrow drowned;
With many a shaken hand, and many a kiss,
He cried, " Farewell! a solemn business this;
Nay, Susan, Sophy! — heaven and earth, my dears!
I am a soldier — what do I with tears? "

He sought his parents; — they together walked,
And of their son, his views and dangers, talked;
They knew not how to blame their friend, but still
They murmured, " She may save us if she will:
Were not these visions working in her mind
Strange things — 'tis in her nature to be kind. "

Their son appeared. — He soothed them, and was blessed,
But still the fondness of his soul confessed.
And where the lady? — To her room retired!
" Now show, dear son, the courage she required. "

George bowed in silence, trying for assent
To his hard fate, and to his trial went:
Fond, but yet fixed, he found her in her room;
Firm, and yet fearful, she beheld him come:
Nor soughThe favour now — No! he would meet his doom.

" Farewell! and, madam, I beseech you pray
That this sad spirit soon may pass away;
That sword or ball would to the dust restore
This body, that the soul may grieve no more
For love rejected. — Oh! that I could quit
The life I loathe, who am for nothing fit,
No, not to die! " — " Unhappy, wilt thou make
The house all wretched for thy passion's sake?
And most its grieving object? " —

" Grieving? — No!
Or as a conqueror mourns a dying foe,
That makes his triumph sure. — Couldst thou deplore
The evil done, the pain would be no more;
But an accursed dream has steeled thy breast,
And all the woman in thy soul suppressed. "

" Oh! it was vision, George; a vision true
As ever seer or holy prophet knew. "

" Can spirits, lady, though they might alarm,
Make an impression on that lovely arm?
A little cold the cause, a little heat,
Or vein minute, or artery's morbid beat,
Even beauty these admit. " —

" I did behold
My brother's form. " —
" Yes, so thy Fancy told,
When in the morning she her work surveyed,
And called the doubtful memory to her aid. "

" Nay, think! the nighThe died — the very night! " —
" 'Tis very true, and so perchance he might,
But in thy mind — not, lady, in thy sight!
Thou wert not well; forms delicately made
These dreams and fancies easily invade;
The mind and body feel the slow disease,
And dreams are what the troubled fancy sees. "
" Oh, but how strange that all should be combined! " —
" True; but such combinations we may find;
A dream's predicted number gained a prize,
Yet dreams make no impression on the wise,
Though some chance good, some lucky gain may rise. "

" Oh! but those words, that voice so truly known! " —
" No doubt, dear lady, they were all thine own;
Memory for thee thy brother's form portrayed;
It was thy fear the awful warning made:
Thy former doubts of a religious kind
Account for all these wanderings of the mind. "

" But then, how different when my father came!
These could not in their nature be the same! " —

" Yes, all are dreams; but some as we awake
Fly off at once, and no impression make:
Others are felt, and ere they quit the brain
Make such impression that they come again;
As half familiar thoughts, and half unknown,
And scarcely recollected as our own;
For half a day abide some vulgar dreams,
And give our grandams and our nurses themes;
Others, more strong, abiding figures draw
Upon the brain, and we assert, " I saw;"
And then the fancy on the organs place
A powerful likeness of a form and face. "

" Yet more — in some strong passion's troubled reign,
Or when the fevered blood inflames the brain,
At once the outward and the inward eye
The real object and the fancied spy;
The eye is open, and the sense is true,
And therefore they the outward object view;
But while the real sense is fixed on these,
The power within its own creation sees:
And these, when mingled in the mind, create
Those striking visions which our dreamers state:
For, knowing that is true that met the sight,
They think the judgment of the fancy right.

" Your frequent talk of dreams has made me turn
My mind on them, and these the facts I learn.
Or should you say, 'tis not in us to take
Heed in both ways, to sleep and be awake,
Perhaps the things by eye and mind surveyed
Are in their quick alternate efforts made;
For by this mixture of the truth, the dream
Will in the morning fresh and vivid seem.

" Dreams are like portraits, and we find they please
Because they are confessed resemblances;
But those strange nightmare visions we compare
To waxen figures — they too real are,
Too much a very truth, and are so just
To life and death, they pain us or disgust.

" Hence from your mind these idle visions shake,
And, O! my love, to happiness awake! "

" It was a warning, tempter! from the dead:
And wedding thee I should to misery wed! "

" False and injurious! what! unjust to thee?
O! hear the vows of Love — it cannot be:
What! I forbear to bless thee — I forego
That first great blessing of existence? No!
Did every ghost that terror saw arise
With such prediction, I should say it lies:
But none there are — a mighty gulf between
Hides the ideal world from objects seen;
We know not where unbodied spirits dwell,
But this we know, they are invisible; —
Yet I have one that fain would dwell with thee,
And always with thy purer spirit be. "

" O! leave me, George! " —
" To take the field, and die,
So leave thee, Lady? Yes, I will comply;
Thou art too far above me — ghosts withstand
My hopes in vain, but riches guard thy hand,
For I am poor — affection and a heart
To thee devoted, I but these impart;
Then bid me go, I will thy words obey,
But let not visions drive thy friend away. "

" Hear me, O! hear me! Shall I wed my son? " —
" I am in fondness and obedience one;
And I will reverence, honour, love, adore,
Be all that fondest sons can be — and more:
And shall thy son, if such he be, proceed
To fierce encounters, and in battle bleed?
No! thou canst weep! "
" O! leave me, I entreat;
Leave me a moment — we shall quickly meet. "

" No! here I kneel, a beggar, at thy feet. " —
He said, and knelt — with accents softer still,
He wooed the weakness of a failing will
And erring judgment — took her hand and cried,
" Withdraw it not! — O! let it thus abide,
Pledge of thy love — upon thy act depend
My joy, my hope, — thus they begin or end!
Withdraw it not. " — He saw her looks expressed
Favour and grace — the hand was firmer pressed;
Signs of opposing fear no more were shown,
And as he pressed, he felt it was his own.

Soon through the house was known the glad assent,
The night so dreaded was in comfort spent;
War was no more, the destined knot was tied,
And the fond widow made a fearful bride.

Let mortal frailty judge how mortals frail
Thus in their strongest resolutions fail,
And though we blame, our pity will prevail.

Yet with that Ghost — for she so thought — in view!
When she believed that all he told was true; —
When every threat was to her mind recalled,
Till it became affrightened and appalled; —
When Reason pleaded, Think! forbear! refrain! —
And when, though trifling, stood that mystic stain,
Predictions, warnings, threats, were present all in vain.

The exulting youth a mighty conqueror rose,
And who hereafter shall his will oppose?

Such is our tale: but we must yet attend
Our weak kind widow to her journey's end;
Upon her death-bed laid, confessing to a friend
Her full belief, for to the hour she died
This she professed: —
" The truth I must not hide;
It was my brother's form, and in the nighThe died:
In sorrow and in shame has passed my time,
All I have suffered follow from my crime:
I sinned with warning — when I gave my hand
A power within said, urgently, — Withstand!
And I resisted — O! my God, what shame,
What years of torment, from that frailty came!

" That husband-son! — I will my fault review —
What did he not that men or monsters do?
His day of love, a brief autumnal day,
E'en in its dawning hastened to decay,
Doomed from our odious union to behold
How cold he grew, and then how worse than cold;
Eager he sought me, eagerly to shun,
Kneeling he wooed me, buThe scorned me, won;
The tears he caused served only to provoke
His wicked insult o'er the hearThe broke;
My fond compliance served him for a jest,
And sharpened scorn — " I ought to be distressed;
Why did I not with my chaste ghost comply?"
And with upbraiding scorn he told me why.
O! there was grossness in his soul: his mind
Could not be raised, nor softened, nor refined.

" Twice he departed in his rage, and went
I know not where, nor how his days were spent;
Twice he returned a suppliant wretch, and craved,
Mean as profuse, the trifle I had saved.

" I have had wounds, and some that never heal,
What bodies suffer, and what spirits feel;
BuThe is gone who gave them, he is fled
To his account! and my revenge is dead:
Yet it is duty, though with shame, to give
My sex a lesson — let my story live;
For if no ghost the promised visit paid,
Still was a deep and strong impression made,
That wisdom had approved, and prudence had obeyed;
But from another world that warning came,
And, O! in this be ended all my shame!
Like the first being of my sex I fell,
Tempted, and with the tempter doomed to dwell —
He was the master-fiend, and where he reigned was hell. "

This was her last, for she described no more
The rankling feelings of a mind so sore,
But died in peace. — One moral let us draw,
Be it a ghost or not the lady saw: —

If our discretion tells us how to live,
We need no ghost a helping hand to give;
But if discretion cannot us restrain,
It then appears a ghost would come in vain.