All other men had been unmann’d To see a coffin on each hand, That served a skeleton to stand By way of sentry; In fact, Death has a very grand And awful entry. Throughout his dismal sign prevails, His name is writ in coffin nails; The mortal darts make area rails; A skull that mocketh, Grins on the gloomy gate, and quails Whoever knocketh. And lo! on either side, arise Two monstrous pillars--bones of thighs; A monumental slab supplies The step of stone, Where waiting for his master lies A dog of bone. The dog leapt up, but gave no yell, The wire was pull’d, but woke no bell, The ghastly knocker rose and fell, But caused no riot; The ways of Death, we all know well, Are very quiet. Old Bones stept in; Jack stepp’d behind; Quoth Death, I really hope you’ll find The entertainment to your mind, As I shall treat ye-- A friend or two of goblin kind, I’ve asked to meet ye. And lo! a crowd of spectres tall, Like jack-a-lanterns on a wall, Were standing--every ghastly ball-- An eager watcher. “My friend,” says Death--“friends, Mr. Hall, The body-snatcher.” Lord, what a tumult it produced, When Mr. Hall was introduced! Jack even, who had long been used To frightful things, Felt just as if his back was sluic’d With freezing springs! Each goblin face began to make Some horrid mouth--ape--gorgon--snake; And then a spectre-hag would shake An airy thigh-bone; And cried, (or seem’d to cry,) I’ll break Your bone, with my bone! Some ground their teeth--some seem’d to spit-- (Nothing, but nothing came of it,) A hundred awful brows were knit In dreadful spite. Thought Jack--“I’m sure I’d better quit Without good-night.” One skip and hop and he was clear, And running like a hunted deer, As fleet as people run by fear Well spurr’d and whipp’d, Death, ghosts, and all in that career Were quite outstripp’d. But those who live by death must die; Jack’s soul at last prepared to fly; And when his latter end drew nigh, Oh! what a swarm Of doctors came,--but not to try To keep him warm. No ravens ever scented prey So early where a dead horse lay, Nor vulture sniff’d so far away A last convulse: A dozen “guests” day after day Were “at his pulse.”