(_For the Mirror_.)
"I do believe," (as Byron cries,)
"There is a haunted spot,
And I can point out where it lies,
But cannot--where 'tis not.
Turn gentle people, lend an ear,
Unto my simple tale,
It will not draw a single tear
Nor make the heart bewail,
'Tis of a ghost! O ladies fair!
Start not with sore affright,
It will not harm a single hair,
Nor 'make it stand upright."
Attend, it was but yesternight,
I in my garret sat,
I saw--no, nothing yet I saw,
But something went pit-pat.
So did my heart responsively,
Beat like a prison'd bird,
That's newly caught--but no reply
I made, to what I heard.
It nearer came--'Angels,' I cried,
'And Ministers of Grace defend.'
Yet nothing I as yet descried,
My hair stood all on end.
My breath was short, I'm sure my eye
Was dim, so was the light,
I thought that I that hour should die,
With sad and sore affright.
And then came o'er me--what came o'er?
Some spectre grim I'll bet,
O tell me!--why at every pore--
A very heavy sweat.
Poh, don't delay the wond'rous tale,
What follow'd? tell me that,
(I feel my heart and limbs too fail)
The same thing, pit-a-pat.
And then there came before my eyes,
I pray thee 'list, O list,'
You fill my heart with dread surprise
What was it? why a mist.
And then around my head there play'd
A flame, so wond'rous bright,
That made me more than all afraid--
My wig had caught the light.
And there came wand'ring by at last,
The same thing, pit-a-pat,
I found as 'cross the room it past,
The cat had got a rat.