Select Poetry.

Hawke's Bay Times, Volume 7, Issue 386, 18 June 1866, Page 1

Select Poetry.

THE GHOST AT BOLTON EOYDE. 41 flf HERE 1 3 no doubt the Louse is haunted: well I’ll go wV and live there truly; In the dreary nights of winter nothing cheers one like a ghost. There is plenty of amusement in the sultry days of July, W hen the anger of Apollo almost turns us into toast.” Thus said Everard toraine to his stately sister Annie, Who to hear his queer decision seemed by no means overjoy’d; Fragrant were her chestnut tresses with Piesse’s Frangipanui, They were talking of the mansion to be let at Bolton Eoyde. *' It’s a pleasant ancient mansion: inTork country nothing finer is: _ Black oak are all the watnscottings—white marble all the floors— It has rookeries, and heronries, and fisheries, and pineries— White peacocks on the terraces—a real ghost indoors. ” And at Christmas Harry Middlemist will come and fill with laughter The quaint old carven corridors and sunny southern rooms; Our joyous hurly-burly will shake every ancient rafter— His flashing wit will chase away your fantasies and glooms." Harry Middlemist, the Saxon, was a poet and a novelist, Whose wit was like a rapier from the sultry Tagus’ brink; (The very man to cut thee down, O borrower, who grovellest. Or Bad, who in the lowest depths of bathos lov’st to sink.) Tall, agile, hazel-eyed, full of dignity, yet lissom, Full of quiet cairn resolve, not unsoftened into grace— With lips both stern and loving—so a maiden well might kiss ’em, Or an enemy turn craven when he looked upon his face. And that Christmas, sure enough, when the holidays began, ho Left the turmoi} and the tumult wherewith London is annoyed. On a visit to Lorainc and his stately sister Annie, By coach—for railway never came near to Bolton Eoyde.

Traveled through the icy moonlight, all a bitter night of winter. On the box. beside a coachman of considerable nous: Glad enough to eut his breakfast by the Yule log’s blazing splinter. Fierce havoc made llal Jliddlemlst on devilled hones and grouse. And the perfume of the Mocha, and the chamber’s curtain’d crimson. Made bim joyous—as did Annie's laughing lips and dusky eyes: And his wit arose and sparkled, as the loamy bubble swims on Vintage of Moselle’s sweet river when the sudden winecork flies. Humour of our humorous Loudon—chaff of Chopc and wit of Charing— For his rustic friends Hal Middlemist did joviously exhume, Of the ghost they spake: quoth Evorard, "You’re sceptical and daring. Do I promise you a quiet nestle In the haunted room.” And he told his friend the story—how it was a ladyspectre, Whom her husband’s mother poisoned in her blushful bridal prime— How the landlord said that Christmas was the season to expect her, Tor she drunk the prussic acid at the year’s most festal time. " I hope she is as pretty as the lady-watch in Christahel—(Not Mr Gerald Massey’s, but immortal S.T.C.’s) Then anight at Bolton Uoydewero temptation irresistible,” Said Harry, as taey smoked cigars beneath the terrace trees. ’Twas an hour or two past midnight, and the murky sky was starless. When Hal Middlemist sat_ down beside the haunted chamber fire. In his ample Turkish dressing-gown and caitan—not cigarless. Looking cozy and grotesque in magnificent attire. In the ancient dusky tapestry a hunting scene was woven, Where a wild boar, dying grimly, fought the hounds upon the wold— On the ceiling war was painted, and a warrior helmetcloven Seemed to see his lonely children, as his hero blood grew cold. There the poet puffed and mused, all his senses in a simmer. While the storm about the turrets made a strange unearthly sound— While the logs upon the hearth threw a ghastly ghostly glimmer O'er the scenes of war and peril on the tapestry around. Suddenly a rustling footfall seemed to wake the outer corridor— Suddenly it ceased, and fingers on the chamber latch were set— And a stately maiden entered (what the mischief could be horrider;-) Looking beautifully awful in a snowy chemisette. Was he frightened ? Why the fact is, he had somewhat lately met a Case in print, which in its nature of the present case partook; He had read, as a reviewer, Edwin Arnold’s Violetta — Only thing a fellow can read in that poet’s little book. Harry knew the apparition for the sweet and stately Annie W alking in her haunted slumbers —wandering on Dreamland's coast; If he had not known the lady, he'd have known the Frangipanid— Perfume utterly unlikely to accompany a ghost. Bo he sat in utter stillness—though his poet-heart was yearning To embrace the perfect creature whom on earth he loved the beat; Still he sat, while down the corridor her tiny feet retum- • ing, Made sweet music as she passed to her maiden mystic nest. Shall I tell how on the morrow Hany Middlemist’s ghoststory Something very like a love-tale to the maiden’s hearing . bore— Te may guess it. Ere the Yorkshire wilds again with snow were hoary Annie wore a golden fetter—she must wander never more. MOETIHEi Colliss.