The Haunted Hour | Page 6

Anon.
229
A Lyke-Wake Dirge Anon.
231

THE HAUNTED HOUR
THE FAR AWAY COUNTRY
NORA HOPPER CHESSON
Far away's the country where I desire to go,
Far away's the country
where the blue roses grow,
Far away's the country and very far away,

And who would travel thither must go 'twixt night and day.
Far away's the country, and the seas are wild
That you must voyage
over, grown man or chrisom child,
O'er leagues of land and water a
weary way you'll go
Before you'll find the country where the blue
roses grow.
But O, and O, the roses are very strange and fair,
You'd travel far to
see them, and one might die to wear,
Yet, far away's the country, and
perilous the sea,
And some may think far fairer the red rose on her
tree.
Far away's the country, and strange the way to fare,
Far away's the
country--O would that I were there!
It's on and on past Whinny Muir
and over Brig o' Dread.
And you shall pluck blue roses the day that
you are dead.
"THE NICHT ATWEEN THE SANCTS AN' SOULS"

ALL-SOULS: KATHERINE TYNAN
The door of Heaven is on the latch
To-night, and many a one is fain

To go home for one night's watch
With his love again.
Oh, where the father and mother sit
There's a drift of dead leaves at
the door
Like pitter-patter of little feet
That come no more.
Their thoughts are in the night and cold,
Their tears are heavier than
the clay,
But who is this at the threshold
So young and gay?
They are come from the land o' the young,
They have forgotten how
to weep;
Words of comfort on the tongue,
And a kiss to keep.
They sit down and they stay awhile,
Kisses and comfort none shall
lack;
At morn they steal forth with a smile
And a long look back.
ALL-SAINTS' EVE: LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE
Oh, when the ghosts go by,
Under the empty trees,
Here in my
house I sit and cry,
My head upon my knees!
Innumerable, white,
Like mist they fill the square;
The bolt is
drawn, the latch made tight,
The shutter barréd there.
There walks one small and glad,
New to the churchyard clod;
My
little lad, my little lad,
A single year with God!
I sit and hide my head
Until they all are past,
Under the empty trees
the dead
That go full soft and fast.
Up to my chamber dim,
Back to my bed I plod;
Oh, would I were a
ghost with him,
And faring back to God!
A DREAM: WILLIAM ALLINGHAM

I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night;
I went to the window to
see the sight;
All the dead that ever I knew
Going one by one and
two by two.
On they pass'd and on they pass'd;
Townsfellows all, from first to last;

Born in the moonlight of the lane,
Quench'd in the heavy shadow
again.
Schoolmates, marching as when they play'd
At soldiers once--but
now more staid;
Those were the strangest sight to me
Who were
drown'd, I knew, in the open sea.
Straight and handsome folk, bent and weak, too;
Some that I loved,
and gasp'd to speak to;
Some but a day in their churchyard bed;

Some that I had not known were dead.
A long long crowd--where each seem'd lonely,
Yet of them all there
was one, one only,
Raised a head or looked my way;
She linger'd a
moment--she might not stay.
How long since I saw that fair pale face!
Ah! Mother dear! might I
only place
My head on thy breast, a moment to rest,
While thy hand
on my tearful cheek were press'd!
On, on, a moving bridge they made
Across the moon-stream, from
shade to shade,
Young and old, women and men;
Many long-forgot,
but remember'd then,
And first there came a bitter laughter;
A sound of tears a moment
after,
And then a music so lofty and gay,
That every morning, day
by day,
I strive to recall it if I may.
THE NEIGHBORS: THEODOSIA GARRISON
At first cock-crow
The ghosts must go
Back to their quiet graves
below.

Against the distant striking of the clock
I heard the crowing cock,

And I arose and threw the window wide;
Long, long before the
setting of the moon,
And yet I knew they must be passing soon--

My neighbors who had died--
Back to their narrow green-roofed
homes that wait
Beyond the churchyard gate.
I leaned far out and waited--all the world
Was like a thing impearled,

Mysterious and beautiful and still:
The crooked road seemed one
the moon might lay,
Our little village slept in Quaker gray,
And
gray and tall the poplars on the hill;
And then far off I heard the
cock--and then
My neighbors passed again.
At first it seemed