Sweet scents from flowers, and from the early grass.

The fearful man, who left the village store,

Near to the cross roads, where the untutored tongue

Supplies the gossip of the printed sheet,

Has here beheld the mist-like, awful ghost.

The rustic lover under midnight stars,

Detained so long by Phebe's sorceries,

His little speech taking so long to say,

Has had his faith sore tried, as he has asked,

Will I, next week, pass here alone, again?

Far the most haunted spot lies yet beyond,

Follow the road until you reach the Ford,

There at the mouldering pile of wall and logs,

Where once the floating raft was as a bridge,

A pure white spirit oftentimes is seen.

She sometimes wanders all along the shore;

Sometimes from off the rocks, she seems to look

For something in the waters. Then again

Where the trees arch the road that skirts the bank,[Pg 77]

[Pg 77]

 Prev. P 41/161 next