THE
FAKENHAM GHOST.
The lawns were dry in Euston Park;
(Here truth inspires my tale)
The lonely footpath, still and dark,
Led over hill and dale.
Benighted was an ancient dame,
And fearful haste she made
To gain the vale of Fakenham,
And hail its willow shade.
Her footsteps knew no idle stops,
But follow'd faster still;
And echo'd to the darksome copse
That whisper'd on the hill.
Where clam'rous rooks, yet scarcely hush'd,
Bespoke a peopled shade;
And many a wing the foliage brush'd,
And hov'ring circuits made.
The dappled herd of grazing deer,
That sought the shades by day,
Now started from her path with fear,
And gave the stranger way.
Darker it grew; and darker fears
Came o'er her troubled mind;
When, now, a short quick step she hears
Come patting close behind.
She turn'd; it stopt!—nought could she see
Upon the gloomy plain!
But, as she strove the sprite to flee,
She heard the same again.
Now terror seiz'd her quaking frame:
For, where the path was bare,
The trotting ghost kept on the same!
She mutter'd many a pray'r.
Yet once again, amidst her fright
She tried what sight could do;
When through the cheating glooms of night,
A monster stood in view.