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Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow, And Scipio's ghost walks unavenged amongst us!

Who gather round, and wonder at the tale Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly, That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand O'er some new-open'd grave; and, Evanishes at crowing of the cock.

Where entity and quiddity, The ghosts of defunct bodies, fly.

The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she.

The unexpected disappearance of Mr. Canning from the scene, followed by the transient and embarrassed phantom of Lord Goderich.

Thin, airy shoals of visionary ghosts.

So many ghosts, and forms of fright, Have started from their graves to-night, They have driven sleep from mine eyes away; I will go down to the chapel and pray.

Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names.

For spirits when they please Can either sex assume, or both.

Whence and what are thou, execrable shape?

All heart they live, all head, all eye, all ear, All intellect, all sense, and as they please They limb themselves, and colour, shape, or size, Assume, as likes them best, condense or rare.

What beck'ning ghost along the moonlight shade Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?

A mote it is to trouble the mind's eye. In the most high and palmy state of Rome, A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets; As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood, Disasters in the sun; and the moist star Upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse.

There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave To tell us this.

I can call spirits from the vasty deep.

Why, so can I, or so can any man; But will they come when you do call for them?

What are these, So withered and so wild in their attire That took not like th' inhabitants o' th' earth And yet are on't?

Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee! I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw.

Now it is the time of night That the graves, all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his sprite, In the churchway paths to glide.

My people too were scared with eerie sounds, A footstep, a low throbbing in the walls. A noise of falling weights that never fell, Weird whispers, bells that rang without a hand, Door-handles turn'd when none was at the door, And bolted doors that open'd of themselves; And one betwixt the dark and light had seen Her, bending by the cradle of her babe.