IN Hampton Court I wandered on a twilight evening grey, Amidst its mazy precincts I had lost my tourist way, And while I cogitated, on a seat of carven stone, I heard beneath an orange tree, an elongated groan! I crinkled with astonishment, 'twas not a fit of fright, For loud elastic wailings, I have heard at twelve at night, The midnight peace disturbing in the lamplit streets below, But this was uttered in an unfamiliar groan of woe, And Hampton Court I wot had got some questionable nooks, In which it harboured spectres, and disreputable spooks, In which it shrouded headless Queens, and shades of evil Kings With ill-conditioned titled knaves, in lemans leading strings. [Illustration] I listened! 'twas a voice that cried as 'twere from out the dust Of time, that clogged its music, with a husk of mould and rust, A voice that once as tenor, might have won a slight repute, But combination now of asthma, whooping cough, and flute. [Illustration] I sauntered towards the orange tree, and lo! the gloaming thro' I saw a man in trunk and hose, and silver buckled shoe, With ruffles and embroidered vest, in wig without a hat, Inclining to the contour, which is designated fat. Just then the waxing moonlight bloomed behind, and lifed the stain Of color thro' him, like a Saint upon a window pane, I could not spare such noted chance; so stepping from the gloom, I bowed politely and exclaimed "A Spectre I presume?" With glad pathetic wondered look, but still in tones of woe, He answered thus, "Alack! ah me I am exactly so" And confidential gleam of hope across his features grew, Which gave me courage thus to start a social interview. "I pray of thee to speak, alas! why grims it so with thee? Some evil canker nips thy peace, divulge thy wrongs to me, That I may give thee hope, for I am one to sympathize With manhood's lamentation, as with womanhood, her sighs, But ha! Mayhap it fits your jest, with elongated groan, To seek to fright me, as I'm here in Hampton Court alone, To wreck my spirits as of old has been the game of spook," The spectre turned upon me with a sad reproachful look. And cried, "Alack! that living men, so long have held it good, To flee from Ghosts, and hence the Ghost is not yet understood, Now as for me, I moan it not, for jest of idle sport, My task, it is as murdered Ghost, to haunt in Hampton Court! I play the victim to a spook, who chucked me down a stair, Thro' being caught too near my lady's bedroom unaware." "Poor shade of ill mischance!" I sobbed, the while a wayward tear, Tricked out along my nose, and lodged upon my tunic here, "I pray that thou would'st tell me all, withholding ne'er a jot, For I might do thee service, in some most unlikely spot,"