One of a large house party, on a frosty Christmas Eve,
The conversation led to ghosts in which some folks believe.
“I wish this house were haunted,” cried a lady young and gay;
“I’d shut myself within its gloom, and none should say me nay.”
Our host informed us gravely that up the broad oak stair,
Was a sealed and disused chamber, which owned a haunted chair.
His grandfather long years before was missing from his bed;
They searched and found him sitting within the arm-chair—dead.
His wealth had been proverbial, but no one found a will;
And though in manner sometimes strange, no one had wished him ill.
“The secret never had been solved,” our host said, “nor a trace
Of ought remained, except the land, and this ancestral place.”
“’Tis done,” the lady said; “to-night I sleep in that arm-chair.
“And if his ghost appears to me, I’ll never show my fear.”
That night the lady went and sat within the chamber dim;
She drew the curtain, chose a book, and read a Christmas hymn.
And then a fear possessed her, she grasped the huge arm-chair,
For in the shadows she could see a man with whitened hair.
His hands were clasped above him in suppliant attitude.
And tears were streaming down like rain, while words in torrent flowed:
“I had a brother once, a boy. I loved him as my life,
But he destroyed my happiness, he stole my promised wife.
We parted, he to Austral’s land, I for long years to mourn,
Until his widow sought me out to aid her infant son.
We married, and I brought him up, but he my wealth desired;
I hid it here, for of this youth with fear was I inspired.
Who’er shall find this secret, as my will doth so declare,
Shall take the half, and all the rest the poor shall have a share;
And Christ reward the hand that finds, and does this Christian deed,
For He hath said unto His flock, “See that my lambs ye feed.”
She rose with awe, he beckoned her, the chair began to creak;
He pressed two large brass nails which lay beneath the leather back.
And there inside the haunted chair were heaps and heaps of gold.
And papers tied with tapes, and strings, and dusty parchments old.
Her dream she told that Christmas morn, the haunted chair was brought—
A fearful weight it was to move, ’twas well and truly wrought—
At length with pressure brought to bear the nails began to move.
When there disclosed to light of day, lay the old man’s treasure-trove.
The lady won’t believe in ghosts, but she believes in dreams,
And also that this lovely world is better than it seems.
To-day we are the owners of the ancient haunted chair—
And clasping Christmas presents my wife is seated there.
A LONELY GRAVE.
Somewhere it lies near the gleaming bay,
On the Redland road with its winding way
Through the bush—where a fence in a lonely spot
Surrounds a grave in its hallowed plot.
List in nights so lonely
Zephyrs sigh only
A requiem.
Through the scorching heat of the bush fire’s breath,
Which hath spent its rage near this place of death,
Unscathed it remains—with the tree which grows
At the foot of this grave, which nobody knows—
Where in night so lonely
The winds breathe only
A requiem.
Somebody knew; but now nobody knows
Of the poor lone corse which in deep repose
Lies in earth’s embrace—till the sleeper awakes
In the glorious dawn, when God’s morning breaks,
And no more so lonely
The winds sigh only
A requiem.
Is it the grave of a father old
Who had toiled too hard for the red, red gold?
Or a brother, a sister, a mother, or son
Or a lover adored by a trusting one,
Who, through long years,
Shed bitter tears—
Her requiem?
Then peace to this grave, of whom nobody knows,
Right close to the track, where the sunset glows
Through the network and woof of the whispering leaves—
One spirit at least for thy loneliness grieves—
Where in nights so lonely,
The winds chant only
Thy requiem.