There's the ghost of a hope
That lighted my days with a fanciful glow.
In her hand is the rope
That strangled her life out. Hope was slain long ago.
But her ghost comes to-night,
With its skeleton face, and expressionless eyes,
And it stands in the light,
And mocks me, and jeers me with sobs and with sighs.
There's the ghost of a Joy,
A frail, fragile thing, and I prized it too much,
And the hands that destroy
Clasped it close, and it died at the withering touch.
There's the ghost of a love,
Born with joy, reared with Hope, died in pain and unrest,
But he towers above
All the others--this ghost: yet a ghost at the best.
I am weary, and fain
Would forget all these dead: but the gibbering host
Make the struggle in vain,
In each shadowy corner, there lurketh a ghost.
1869
[TIM'S STORY]
I was out promenading one fine summer day,
When I chanced upon three bosom cronies to stray,
And a beer shop we happened to pass on our way.
"Now boys," said I, stopping them all with a wink,
"If you'll step round the corner, I'll treat to a drink;
How is it, my hearties? now, what do you think?"
So, into the bar-room we dropped in a flash,
And up to the keeper I went with a dash:
"Four glasses of lager, and none of your trash,
But the best and the foamiest money can bring,"
Was the order I gave, with the air of a king;
And mine host fluttered off, like a bird on the wing.