Classic Poem

Ghosts oftentimes seem to have ta'en delight,
In torturing simple mortals from mere spite,
Or rather wantonness, a thing that's strange,
That fantoms incorporeal chuse to range
Like merry Andrews thro' the glade,
Half-ruin'd church, or darksome shade,
To strike poor sinner's with affright,
And never once in day-light shew their noses,
But when the moon's wan glimpse discloses
Objects half visible to view,
'Tis then these gentry chuse to shew
Their forms to human eyes, and to appear
O'er grave's new dug in church yard's drear,
Especially at twelve o'clock at night.

Consci'nce too sometimes has the power,
At this unhallowed solitary hour,
To aise by way of exibition,
Dread spectres to the wandring vision,
Which puts the human soul in such a flutter,
That she with expedition capers
O'er her past actions,
Thoughts and transactions,
Like some old scriv'ner o'er his papers,
And Ave Maria's strait begins to mutter.

It sometimes happens that a debauchee,
Or midnight punk,
With claret drunk,
Can from acuteness of sensation,
(Obtuseness rather should we say),
And dint of mere imagination,
Objects so mingle and display,
And images right plain pourtray,
That not another man alive could see.

Full many a bulrush tall, and nodding thistle,
Has been transform'd by fancy ever pliant,
By moonlight when the loud winds howling whistle,
Into a towering, fierce, and hideous giant;
And many a branchless tree and knotty post,
Has thus been metamorphos'd to a ghost;
Fellows I've seen exceeding bold,
Oppos'd to dauger's that were real,
Whose blood has suddenly run cold,
At terrors perfectly ideal.
For fancy powerful works, by fear assisted,
And miracles can make from mod'rate things,
When futile reason from her throne is twisted,
T' admit the nonsense which from folly springs.

T IM T INDLE was a fellow of that sort,
Whose chiefest happiness was in a quarrel,
The more the danger greater was the sport —
I'm drew his courage chiefly from the barrel;
But tell him of enchantment, sprite, or spectre,
And in a trice this modern Hector
Would strait turn pale,
To hear the tale
Of goblin dire,
Close to the fire,
Would squeeze his chair,
And breathless stare,
With bristling hair,
To hear some foolish beldame's silly lecture.

It chanc'd one day that T IM had been,
Participating in a jovial scene,
With many more,
Perhaps a score,
Of Men and women at a country fair;
A bouncing tight young lass ycleped Nancy,
Had captivated by some means his fancy,
And arm in arm they home return'd,
Each breast with mutual ardour burn'd,
And company they shunn'd with studious care.

The night was dark, the weather hot,
Our trav'lers hied a pace,
And as they ambled in jog trot,
Their youthful blood wax'd warm, god wot,
With passion flush'd each face.

Uninterrupted silence reign'd around,
No curfew toll or other sound
Was to be heard,
No creature stirr'd,
But all was hush'd as death;
The tender foilage on the trees,
Unruffl'd by the slightest breeze,
Seem'd not to feel the slightest breath.

Occasion with the time according,
The place fit opportunity affording,
In wild commotion ev'ry passion mov'd;
Tim squeez'd the fair one by the hand,
Who half involuntary seems to stand,
Whilst thro' her heart a thousand transport's rov'd.

Their tongues the power of utt'rance quite had lost,
In raptures drown'd, all language seem'd in vain,
Tim seiz'd her in his arms, then fondly toss'd,
The yielding fair one on the daisy'd plain:
Now pleasure
Sans measure,
Seem'd opening to his view'
He press'd her,
Caress'd her,
Among the pearly drew;

But, ah! how vain is ev'ry human hope,
So oft with disappointment deem'd to cope:
Just at that instant when poor Tim,
Thought not a man alive so blest as him —
Diana queen of chastity,
Whether excited from mere pity,
Or prompted by a peevishness uncommon,
I mean the peevishness of woman,
Or griev'd to think a girl so pretty,
Should fall a victim to brutality.

Be't as it would her motive this or that,
Or mere compassion, jealousy, or spleen,
It happen'd that the crescent queen,
Just at that moment rose in fulgent state,
And thro' the dark domain of night,
Cast such a sudden burst of light,
That tho' transfixt in seeming bliss,
Poor Tim in wild amasement round
Star'd: first on Heav'n than on the ground,
Unable to account for change like this.

Convuls'd with horror and surprise,
Around he turns his wond'ring eyes,
When lo, terrific straight before his face,
A tall and ghastly apparition stands,
With towering head and outstretch'd hands.
That seem'd held forth the couple to embrace.
Cold sweet bedew'd his limbs and chil'd his blood,
His hair like porcupines erected stood,
His heart beat quick with deep dismay,
He gasps for breath,
Expects his death,
And in an agony of grief,
Quite unexpectant of relief,
He swoons away.

Oh! conscience, what a coward,
Art thou in accidents untoward,
Like proteus chang'd by times and places,
To suit variety of cases;
Sometimes with giant strides to climb,
Across the loftiest hill,
And feebly at another time,
Scarce step a tiny rill:
Say whether is it consciousness of evil,
The fear of human edicts or the devil,
That checks us most in vice,
Which ever 'tis, 'tis no great matter,
Whether the former or the latter,
We heed not points so nice.

Reader, perhaps thou'rt wondering all this while,
What this same spectre is that he has seen,
Perhaps thou think'st too, no such thing has been,
If so at thy incredence I shall smile;
For verily with due submission,
Tim saw a most tremenduous apparition!
What was it then, come speak? — nay prithee guess,
Perhaps you'll blunder out what it might be —
I can't — then sir, 'twas neither more or less —
Than just the trunk of an old branchless tree.