From every pore distill'd a clammy dew, Quaked every limb,—the candle too no doubt, En règle, would have burnt extremely blue, But Nick unluckily had put it out; And he, though naturally bold and stout, In short, was in a most tremendous stew;— The room was fill'd with a sulphureous smell, But where that came from Mason could not tell.
All motionless the Spectre stood,—and now Its rev'rend form more clearly shone confest; From the pale cheek a beard of purest snow Descended o'er its venerable breast; The thin grey hairs, that crown'd its furrow'd brow, Told of years long gone by.—An awful guest It stood, and with an action of command, Beckon'd the Cobbler with its wan right hand.
"Whence, and what art thou, Execrable Shape?" Nick might have cried, could he have found a tongue, But his distended jaws could only gape, And not a sound upon the welkin rung: His gooseberry orbs seem'd as they would have sprung Forth from their sockets,—like a frightened Ape He sat upon his haunches, bolt upright, And shook, and grinn'd, and chatter'd with affright.
And still the shadowy finger, long and lean, Now beckon'd Nick, now pointed to the door; And many an ireful glance, and frown, between, The angry visage of the Phantom wore, As if quite vex'd that Nick would do no more Than stare, without e'en asking, "What d'ye mean?"
THE GHOST.
Because, as we are told,—a sad old joke too,— Ghosts, like the ladies, "never speak till spoke to."