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?" [Illustration: THE GHOST.] 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 Spectre 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 sombre 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.