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The Haunted Hour An Anthology

by Various

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THE FAR AWAY COUNTRY NORA HOPPER CHESSON Far away's the country where I desire to go,Far away's the country where the blue roses grow,Far away's the country and very far away,And who would travel thither must go 'twixt night and day. Far away's the country, and the seas are wildThat you must voyage over, grown man or chrisom child,O'er leagues of land and water a weary way you'll goBefore you'll find the country where the blue roses grow. But O, and O, the roses are very strange and fair,You'd travel far to see them, and one might die to wear,Yet, far away's the country, and perilous the sea,And some may think far fairer the red rose on her tree. Far away's the country, and strange the way to fare,Far away's the country—O would that I were there!It's on and on past Whinny Muir and over Brig o' Dread.And you shall pluck blue roses the day that you are dead.


ALL-SOULS: KATHERINE TYNAN The door of Heaven is on the latchTo-night, and many a one is fainTo go home for one night's watchWith his love again. Oh, where the father and mother sitThere's a drift of dead leaves at the doorLike pitter-patter of little feetThat come no more. Their thoughts are in the night and cold,Their tears are heavier than the clay,But who is this at the thresholdSo young and gay? They are come from the land o' the young,They have forgotten how to weep;Words of comfort on the tongue,And a kiss to keep. They sit down and they stay awhile,Kisses and comfort none shall lack;At morn they steal forth with a smileAnd a long look back. ALL-SAINTS' EVE: LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE Oh, when the ghosts go by,Under the empty trees,Here in my house I sit and cry,My head upon my knees! Innumerable, white,Like mist they fill the square;The bolt is drawn, the latch made tight,The shutter barréd there. There walks one small and glad,New to the churchyard clod;My little lad, my little lad,A single year with God! I sit and hide my headUntil they all are past,Under the empty trees the deadThat go full soft and fast. Up to my chamber dim,Back to my bed I plod;Oh, would I were a ghost with him,And faring back to God! A DREAM: WILLIAM ALLINGHAM I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night;I went to the window to see the sight;All the dead that ever I knewGoing one by one and two by two. On they pass'd and on they pass'd;Townsfellows all, from first to last;Born in the moonlight of the lane,Quench'd in the heavy shadow again. Schoolmates, marching as when they play'dAt soldiers once—but now more staid;Those were the strangest sight to meWho were drown'd, I knew, in the open sea. Straight and handsome folk, bent and weak, too;Some that I loved, and gasp'd to speak to;Some but a day in their churchyard bed;Some that I had not known were dead. A long long crowd—where each seem'd lonely,Yet of them all there was one, one only,Raised a head or looked my way;She linger'd a moment—she might not stay. How long since I saw that fair pale face!Ah! Mother dear! might I only placeMy head on thy breast, a moment to rest,While thy hand on my tearful cheek were press'd! On, on, a moving bridge they madeAcross the moon-stream, from shade to shade,Young and old, women and men;Many long-forgot, but remember'd then, And first there came a bitter laughter;A sound of tears a moment after,And then a music so lofty and gay,That every morning, day by day,I strive to recall it if I may. THE NEIGHBORS: THEODOSIA GARRISON At first cock-crowThe ghosts must goBack to their quiet graves below. Against the distant striking of the clockI heard the crowing cock,And I arose and threw the window wide;Long, long before the setting of the moon,And yet I knew they must be passing soon—My neighbors who had died—Back to their narrow green-roofed homes that waitBeyond the churchyard gate....