Within the mouldering fabric's deep recess At length they reach a court obscure and lone;-- It seem'd a drear and desolate wilderness, The blacken'd walls with ivy all o'ergrown; The night-bird shriek'd her note of wild distress, Disturb'd upon her solitary throne, As though indignant mortal step should dare, So led, at such an hour, to venture there! --The Apparition paused, and would have spoke, Pointing to what Nick thought an iron ring, But then a neighbouring chanticleer awoke, And loudly 'gan his early matins sing; And then "it started like a guilty thing," As that shrill clarion the silence broke. --We know how much dead gentlefolks eschew The appalling sound of "Cock-a-doodle-do!" The vision was no more--and Nick alone-- "His streamers waving" in the midnight wind, Which through the ruins ceased not to groan; --His garment, too, was somewhat short behind,-- And, worst of all, he knew not where to find The ring,--which made him most his fate bemoan-- The iron ring,--no doubt of some trap door, 'Neath which the old dead Miser kept his store. "What's to be done?" he cried, "'Twere vain to stay Here in the dark without a single clue-- Oh, for a candle now, or moonlight ray! 'Fore George, I'm vastly puzzled what to do," (Then clapped his hand behind)--"'Tis chilly too-- I'll mark the spot, and come again by day. What can I mark it by?--Oh, here's the wall-- The mortar's yielding--here I'll stick my awl!" Then rose from earth to sky a withering shriek, A loud, a long-protracted note of woe, Such as when tempests roar, and timbers creak, And o'er the side the masts in thunder go; While on the deck resistless billows break, And drag their victims to the gulfs below;-- Such was the scream when, for the want of candle, Nick Mason drove his awl in up to the handle. Scared by his Lady's heart-appalling cry, Vanished at once poor Mason's golden dream-- For dream it was;--and all his visions high, Of wealth and grandeur, fled before that scream-- And still he listens with averted eye, When gibing neighbours make "the Ghost" their theme; While ever from that hour they all declare That Mrs. Mason used a cushion in her chair! * * * * * Confound not, I beseech thee, reader, the subject of the following monody with the hapless hero of the tea-urn, Cupid, of "Yow-Yow"-ing memory. Tray was an attached favourite of many years' standing. Most people worth loving have had a friend of this kind; Lord Byron says he "never had but one, and here he (the dog, not the nobleman,) lies!" THE CYNOTAPH. Poor Tray charmant! Poor Tray de mon Ami! Dog-bury and Vergers.