The Death Watch tick'd behind the panel'd oak, Inexplicable tremors shook the arras,

And echoes strange and mystical awoke,

The fancy to embarrass.

Prophetic hints that fill'd the soul with dread,
But thro' one gloomy entrance pointing mostly,
The while some secret inspiration said,
That Chamber is the Ghostly!

Across the door no gossamer festoon

Swung pendulous-no web-no dusty fringes,
No silk chrysalis or white cocoon
About its nooks and hinges.

The spider shunn'd the interdicted room,
The moth, the beetle, and the fly were banish'd,
And where the sunbeam fell athwart the gloom.
The very midge had vanish'd.

One lonely ray that glanced upon a Bed,
As if with awful aim direct and certain,
To show the Bloody Hand in burning red
Embroidered on the curtain.

And yet no gory stain was on the quilt-
The pillow in its place had slowly rotted;
The floor alone retain'd the trace of guilt,
Those boards obscurely spotted.

Obscurely spotted to the door, and thence
With mazy doubles to the grated casement—
Oh what a tale they told of fear intense,
Of horror and amazement !

What human creature in the dead of night

Had coursed like hunted hare that cruel distance? Had sought the door, the window in his flight, Striving for dear existence?

What shrieking Spirit in that bloody room Its mortal frame had violently quitted?— Across the sunbeam, with a sudden gloom, A ghostly Shadow flitted.

Across the sunbeam, and along the wall,
But painted on the air so very dimly,
It hardly veil'd the tapestry at all,
Or portrait frowning grimly.

O'er all there hung the shadow of a fear, A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is Haunted!

To trace the Kilmansegg pedigree
To the very root of the family tree
Were a task as rash as ridiculous:
Through antediluvian mists as thick
As London fog such a line to pick
Were enough, in truth, to puzzle old Nick,-
Not to name Sir Harris Nicolas.

It wouldn't require much verbal strain
To trace the Kill-man, perchance, to Cain,
But, waiving all such digressions,
Suffice it, according to family lore,
A Patriarch Kilmansegg lived of yore,

Who was famed for his great possessions.

Tradition said he feather'd his nest
Through an Agricultural Interest

In the Golden Age of farming;
When golden eggs were laid by the geese,
And Colchian sheep wore a golden fleece,
And golden pippins--the sterling kind
Of Hesperus-now so hard to find-
Made Horticulture quite charming!

A Lord of Land, on his own estate,
He lived at a very lively rate,

But his income would bear carousing;
Such acres he had of pasture and heath,
With herbage so rich from the ore beneath,
The very ewe's and lambkin's teeth
Were turn'd into gold by browsing.

He gave, without any extra thrift,
A flock of sheep for a birthday gift

To each son of his loins, or daughter:
And his debts-if debts he had-at will
He liquidated by giving each bill
A dip in Pactolian water.

'Twas said that even his pigs of lead,
By crossing with some by Midas bred,
Made a perfect mine of his piggery.
And as for cattle, one yearling bull
Was worth all Smithfield-market full
Of the Golden Bulls of Pope Gregory.

The high-bred horses within his stud,
Like human creatures of birth and blood,
Had their Golden Cups and flagons:

And as for the common husbandry nags,
Their noses were tied in money-bags,

When they stopp'd with the carts and waggons.

Morcover, he had a Golden Ass,

Sometimes at stall, and sometimes at grass,
That was worth his own weight in money—
And a golden hive, on a Golden Bank,
Where golden bees, by alchemical prank,
Gather'd gold instead of honey,

Gold and gold! and gold without end!
He had gold to lay by, and gold to spend,
Gold to give, and gold to lend,

And reversions of gold in futuro.

In wealth the family revell'd and roll'd,
Himself and wife and sons so bold;-

And his daughters sang to their harps of gold "O bella eta del' oro!"

Such was the tale of the Kilmansegg Kin,
In golden text on a vellum skin,

Though certain people would wink and grin,
And declare the whole story a parable-
That the Ancestor rich was one Jacob Ghrimes,
Who held a long lease, in prosperous times,
Of acres, pasture and arable.

That as money makes money, his golden bees
Were the Five per Cents., or which you please
When his cash was more than plenty-
That the golden cups were racing affairs;
And his daughters, who sang Italian airs,

Had their golden harps of Clementi.

That the Golden Ass, or Golden Bull,
Was English John, with his pockets full,
Then at war by land and water:
While beef, and mutton, and other meat,
Were almost as dear as money to eat,
And Farmers reaped Golden Harvests of wheat
At the Lord knows what per quarter !