And now those matted locks, which never yet
Had yielded to the comb's unkind divorce,
Their long-contracted amity forget,
And spring asunder with elastic force;
Nay, e'en the very cap, of texture coarse,
Whose ruby cincture crown'd that brow of jet,
Uprose in agony—the Gorgon's head
Was but a type of Nick's up-squatting in the bed.
From every pore distill'd a clammy dew.
Quaked every limb,—the candle too no doubt,
En regle, 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 Specter stood,—and now
Its reverend form more clearly shone confest,
From the pale cheek a beard of purest snow
Descended o'er its venerable breast;
The thin gray 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 vexed that Nick would do no more
Than stare, without e'en asking, "What d' ye mean?"
Because, as we are told,—a sad old joke too,—
Ghosts, like the ladies, "never speak till spoke to."
Cowards, 'tis said, in certain situations,
Derive a sort of courage from despair,
And then perform, from downright desperation,
Much more than many a bolder man would dare.
Nick saw the Ghost was getting in a passion,
And therefore, groping till he found the chair,
Seized on his awl, crept softly out of bed,
And follow'd quaking where the Specter led.
And down the winding stair, with noiseless tread,
The tenant of the tomb pass'd slowly on,
Each mazy turning of the humble shed
Seem'd to his step at once familiar grown,
So safe and sure the labyrinth did he tread
As though the domicile had been his own,
Though Nick himself, in passing through the shop,
Had almost broke his nose against the mop.
Despite its wooden bolt, with jarring sound,
The door upon its hinges open flew;
And forth the Spirit issued,—yet around
It turn'd as if its follower's fears it knew,
And once more beckoning, pointed to the mound,
The antique Keep, on which the bright moon threw
With such effulgence her mild silvery gleam,
The visionary form seem'd melting in her beam.
Beneath a pond'rous archway's somber shade,
Where once the huge portcullis swung sublime,
'Mid ivied battlements in ruin laid,
Sole, sad memorials of the olden time,
The Phantom held its way,—and though afraid
Even of the owls that sung their vesper chime,
Pale Nicholas pursued, its steps attending,
And wondering what on earth it all would end in.
Within the moldering fabric's deep recess
At length they reach a court obscure and lone;
It seemed a drear and desolate wilderness,
The blackened walls with ivy all o'ergrown;
The night-bird shrieked her note of wild distress,
Disturb'd upon her solitary throne,
As though indignant mortal step should dare,
So led, at such an hour, should venture there!