Sir R-ch-rd T-mpl-'s Ghost.
It was midnight dark and dreary;
I was sitting lone and weary,
And, on public projects brooding, my poor head was aching sore:
When into my chamber striding
Came a sable stranger gliding,
Then, without pretence at hiding, squatted on the matted floor,
Squatted calmly on the floor,
Squatted; grinned,—and nothing more.
Starting up, I eyed the native
With an aspect legislative,
Saying sternly, "Off thou caitiff! know'st thou ME, vile blackamoor?"
But the intruder, nought replying,
Nought asserting, nought denying,
Silent sat, my motions eyeing, chewing betel as before;
Squatting on the matted floor,
Chewing, grinning,—nothing more!
"Wretch!" I cried, with wrath rampageous,
"This your conduct's quite outrageous.
Get thee gone, or I will thump thee, thou audacious blackamoor!"
But the stranger, nothing caring,
With his daring ghostly bearing,
With his grinning, and his staring, madden'd me still more and more,
Squatting on the matted floor,
Chewing betel,—nothing more.
Now there rose in me a terror,
Thought I, "Are my eyes in error?
It is surely some black phantom come from Dreamland's shadowy shore;
'Tis a Ghoul, or Shape of evil,
Lemure, Spectre, Imp, or Devil,
Wont to hold fantastic revel in the brain's distracted core:
Nothing squats upon that floor,
'Tis my fancy,—nothing more!"
Turning then, the Shape unheeding,
Straight I sat me down to reading,
Reading Balance Sheets, whereover 'twas my duty then to pore:
But:—'twas strange—methought the figures
Took to dancing sudden jiggers,
Like a troupe of dancing niggers, whirling, twirling, more and more;
While the phantom from the floor
Rose and watched them,—nothing more.
"Bogie!" said I, "You're right gracious!
Will you think me too audacious
If I ask you what your name is, since we've never met before?
Do you hail from hell or heaven?
Do you know a certain raven
That appeared, like you, one even, to the Poet of Lenore?
Tell me, Mr. Blackamoor,—
Tell me this, and nothing more!"
Grinning still, but still naught heeding,
Stood that silent Stranger reading,
Reading to himself the figures my Financial Statement bore.
"Fool!" I cried exasperated,
"Is your curious humour sated?
You will not seem so elated when I kick you through that door!
Speak, or quit my matted floor!
What's your business, blackamoor!"
Turning now, that spectre sable
Snatched The Budget from my table;
Through THE SURPLUS with his finger drew a broad phosphoric score,
Then, while steamed a sulph'rous vapour,
Wrote in phosphorus on the paper—
DEFICIT!—then with a caper, straight evanished through the floor,
Vanished through the matted floor,
Breathing brimstone,—nothing more!
Filled and thrilled with trembling wonder,
Forthwith, with a voice of thunder,
"Boy!" I cried, "Bring me some cognac!"—and the Boy some cognac bore:
But, from me, I know that never
Spirits shall that Spirit sever,
Though adown my throat for ever, peg on peg I wildly pour.
Still that phantom, o'er and o'er,
DEFICIT! writes evermore.