THE FAKENHAM GHOST.

BY ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

THE lawns were dry in Euston Park;
(Here truth inspires my tale)

The lonely footpath, still and dark,
Led over hill and dale.

Benighted was an ancient dame,
And fearful haste she made,
To gain the vale of Fakenham,
And hail its willow shade.

Her footsteps knew no idle stops,
But follow'd faster still;
And echo'd to the darksome copse
That whisper'd on the hill;

Where clamorous rooks, yet scarcely flush'd,
Bespoke a peopled shade;

And many a wing the foliage brush'd,
And hov'ring circuits made.

The dappled herd of grazing deer
That sought the shades by day,
Now started from her path with fear,
And gave the stranger way.

Darker it grew; and darker fears
Came o'er her troubled mind:
When now a short quick step she hears
Come patting close behind.

She turn'd; it stopt!—nought could she see
Upon the gloomy plain!

But as she strove the sprite to flee,
She heard the same again.

Now terror seiz'd her quaking frame;
For, where the path was bare,
The trotting ghost kept on the same!
She mutter'd many a pray'r.

Yet once again, amidst her fright,
She tried what sight could do;
When, thro' the cheating glooms of night,
A MONSTER stood in view.

Regardless of what'e'r she felt,
It follow'd down the plain!
She own'd her sins, and down she knelt,
And said her pray'rs again.

Then on she sped: and hope grew strong,
The white park-gate in view;

Which pushing hard, so long it swung
That ghost and all pass'd through.

Loud fell the gate against the post!
Her heart-strings like to crack:
For, much she fear'd the grisly ghost
Would leap upon her back.

Still on, pat, pat, the goblin went,
As it had done before:—
Her strength and resolution spent,
She fainted at the door.

Out came her husband, much surpris'd:
Out came her daughter dear:

Good-natur'd souls! all unadvis'd
Of what they had to fear.

The candle's gleam pierc'd thro' the night,
Some short space o'er the green;

And there the little trotting sprite
Distinctly might be seen.

An Ass's Foal had lost its dam
Within the spacious park;

And, simple as the playful lamb,
Had follow'd in the dark.

No goblin he; no imp of sin;
No crimes had ever known.

They took the shaggy stranger in,
And rear'd him as their own.

His little hoofs would rattle round
Upon the cottage-floor;

The matron learn'd to love the sound
That frighten'd her before.

A favourite the ghost became;
And, 'twas his fate to thrive:

And long he liv'd, and spread his fame,
And kept the joke alive.

For many a laugh went thro' the vale;
And some conviction too:—

Each thought some other goblin tale,
Perhaps, was just as true.

This Poem, which the Artist has selected for the
above Plate, is founded on a fact; and though the cir-
cumstance occurred, perhaps, long before the author
was born, yet, he says, it is related by his mother,
and some of the oldest inhabitants in the county of
Norfolk. A desire of contributing, as much as is in
his power, to the eradication of the ridiculous notions
too often imbibed in early life, of ghosts, goblins, and
such visionary beings, he hopes, will be a sufficient
apology for his attempting to increase, if possible,
the popularity of this pleasant tale.

Published 15th July, 1805, by LAURIE and WHITTLE, No. 53, Fleet Street, London.