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'Tis hard for human actions to account,
Whether from reason or from inpulse only-
But some internal prompting bade me mount
The gloomy stairs and lonely.

Those gloomy stairs, so dark, and damp, and
cold,

With odors as from bones and relics carnal,
Deprived of rite and consecrated mould,
The chapel-vault or charnel.

Those dreary stairs, where with the sounding stress

Of every step so many echoes blended,

That mystic moth, which, with a sense pro-
found

Of all unholy presence, augurs truly;
And with a grim significance flits round
The taper burning bluely.

Such omens in the place there seemed to be,
At every crooked turn, or on the landing,
The straining eyeball was prepared to see
Some Apparition standing.

For over all there hung a cloud of fear,
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,
The place is Haunted.

Yet no portentous Shape the sight amazed;
Each object plain, and tangible, and valid;
But from their tarnished frames dark Figures
gazed,

And Faces spectre-pallid.

Not merely with the mimic life that lies
Within the compass of Art's simulation;

Their souls were looking through their painted

eyes

With awful speculation.

On every lip a speechless horror dwelt;
On every brow the burthen of affliction;
The old Ancestral Spirits knew and felt
The House's malediction.

Such earnest woe their features overcast,
They might have stirred, or sighed, or wept, or

spoken:

But, save the hollow moaning of the blast,
The stillness was unbroken.

No other sound or stir of life was there,

Except my steps in solitary chamber.
From flight to flight, from humid stair to stair,
From chamber into chamber.

Deserted rooms of luxury and state,
That old magnificence had richly furnished
With pictures, cabinets of ancient date,
And carvings gilt and burnished.

Rich hangings, storied by the needle's art,
With Scripture history, or classic fable;
But all had faded save one ragged part,
Where Cain was slaying Abel.

The silent waste of mildew and the moth
Had marred the tissue with a partial ravage;
But undecaying frowned upon the cloth

The mind, with dark misgivings, feared to guess Each feature stern and savage.
How many feet ascended.

The tempest with its spoils had drifted in,
Till each unwholesome stone was darkly spotted,
As thickly as the leopard's dappled skin,
With leaves that rankly rotted.

The air was thick-and in the upper gloom
The bat or something in its shape-was wing-
ing;

And on the wall, as chilly as a tomb,
The Death's-Head moth was clinging.

The sky was pale; the cloud a thing of doubt;

Some hues were fresh, and some decayed and
duller;

But still the BLOODY HAND shone strangely out
With vehemence of color!

The BLOODY HAND that with a lurid stain
Shone on the dusty floor, a dismal token,
Projected from the casement's painted pane,
Where all beside was broken.

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Perchance, the very race and constant riot
Of stages, long and short, which thereby ran,
Made him more relish the repose and quiet
Of his now sedentary caravan ;
Perchance, he loved the ground because 'twas
common,

And so he might impale a strip of soil,

That furnished, by his toil,

Some dusty greens, for him and his old woman
And five tall hollyhocks, in dingy flower.
Howbeit, the thoroughfare did no ways spoil
His peace,-unless, in some unlucky hour,
A stray horse came and gobbled up his bower!

But, tired of always looking at the coaches, The same to come,-when they had seen them one day!

And, used to brisker life, both man and wife Began to suffer N-U-E's approaches, And feel retirement like a long wet Sunday,So, having had some quarters of School-breeding,

They turned themselves, like other folk, to reading;

But setting out where others nigh have done,
And being ripened in the seventh stage,
The childhood of old age,
Began, as other children have begun,-
Not with the pastorals of Mr. Pope,
Or Bard of Hope,

Or Paley ethical, or learned Porson,-
But spelt on Sabbaths, in St. Mark, or John,
And then relaxed themselves with Whittington,
Or Valentine and Orson-

But chiefly fairy tales they loved to con,
And being easily melted, in their dotage,
Slobbered, and kept
Reading, and wept
Over the White Cat, in their wooden cottage.

Thus reading on-the longer

They read of course, their childish faith grew stronger

In Gnomes, and Hags, and Elves, and Giants grim,

If talking Trees and Birds revealed to him,
She saw the flight of Fairyland's fly-wagons;

And magic-fishes swim

A FAIRY TALE.

81

In puddle - ponds, and took old crows for | There was no house-no villa there-no noth

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And being huffed

At what he knew was none of Riquet's Tuft,
Banged-to the door,

But most unluckily enclosed a morsel
Of the intruding tail, and all the tassel,-
The monster gave a roar,

And bolting off with speed, increased by pain,
The little house became a coach once more,
And, like Macheath," took to the road" again!

Just then, by Fortune's whimsical decree,
The ancient woman stooping with her crupper,
Towards sweet home, or where sweet home
should be,

Was getting up some household herbs for supper;
Thoughtful of Cinderella, in the tale,
And quaintly wondering if magic shifts
Could o'er a common pumpkin so prevail,
To turn it to a coach,-what pretty gifts
Might come of cabbages, and curly kale:
Meanwhile she never heard her old man's wail,
Nor turned, till bome had turned a corner, quite
Gone out of sight!

At last, conceive her, rising from the ground,
Weary of sitting on her russet clothing;
And looking round

Where rest was to be found,

VOL. III.-6

ing! No house!

The change was quite amazing;

It made her senses stagger for a minute,
The riddle's explication seemed to harden;
But soon her superannuated nous
Explained the horrid mystery;-and raising
Her hand to heaven, with the cabbage in it,
On which she meant to sup,-
"Well! this is Fairy Work! I'll bet a farden,
Little Prince Silverwings has ketched me up,
And set me down in some one else's garden!"

A NOCTURNAL SKETCH.

A NEW STYLE OF BLANK VERSE.

EVEN is come; and from the dark Park hark,
The signal of the setting sun-one gun!
And six is sounding from the chime, prime
time

To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain,-
Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out,-
Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade,
Denying to his frantic clutch much touch;-

Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride
Four horses as no other man can span;
Or in the small Olympic Pit, sit split
Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.

Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things

Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung;
The gas up-blazes with its bright white light,
And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl,
About the streets and take up Pall-Mall Sal,
Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.
Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash,
crash,

Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep,
But frightened by Policeman B. 3, flee,
And while they're going, whisper low,
"No go!"

Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads,

And sleepers waking, grumble-"Drat that cat!

Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls, Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will.

Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise
In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor
Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly;-
But Nursemaid in a nightmare's rest, chest-
pressed,

Dreameth of one of her old flames, James
Games,

And that she hears-what faith is man's!--Ann's

banns

And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice,. twice, thrice;

White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out, That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows' woes!

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MRS. F.

In vain she was doctored, in vain she was dosed,
Still her strength and her appetite pined;
She lost relish for what she had relished the If seas have roads, they're very rough-I never

most,

Even salmon she deeply declined.

felt such ruts!

BOATMAN.

For months still I lingered in hope and in doubt, It's neap, ye see, she's heavy lade, and couldn't

While her form it grew wasted and thin; But the last dying spark of existence went out, As the oysters were just coming in!

She died, and she left me the saddest of men

To indulge in a widower's moan,

Oh, I felt all the power of solitude then,
As I ate my first natives alone!

pass the bar.

MRS. F.

The bar what, roads with turnpikes too? I wonder where they are!

BOATMAN.

But when I beheld Virtue's friends in their Ho Brig ahoy! hard up! hard up! that lub

cloaks,

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ber cannot steer!

MRS. F.

Yes, yes-hard up upon a rock! I know some danger's near!

Lord, there's a wave! it's coming in! and roaring like a bull !

BOATMAN.

Nothing, Ma'am, but a little slop! go large, Bill! keep her full!

MRS. F.

What, keep her full! what daring work! when full, she must go down!

BOATMAN.

Why, Bill, it lulls! ease off a bit-it's coming off the town!

She's under what?-I hope she's not! good gra- Steady your helm! we'll clear the Pint! lay cious, what a spray!

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Run up the jib, and rig the boom! keep clear Be steady-well, I hope they can! but they've

of those two brigs!

got a pint of drink!

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