And only serves to make thy night more irksome. Cheerless, unsocial plant! that loves to dwell See yonder hallow'd fane! the pious work Of names once fam'd, now dubious or forgot, And buried 'midst the wreck of things which were; There lie interr'd the more illustrious dead. The wind is up: hark! how it howls! Methinks, Till now, I never heard a sound so dreary! Doors creek, and windows clap, and night's foul bird Rook'd in the spire, screams loud; the gloomy aisles Black plaster'd, and hung round with shreds of 'scutcheons, And tatter'd coats of arms, send back the sound, Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults, The mansions of the dead. Rous'd from their In grim array the grisly spectres rise, [slumbers, Grin horrible, and, obstinately sullen, Quite round the pile, a row of rev'rend elms, (Coëval near with that) all ragged shew, Long lash'd by the rude winds. Some rift half down Their branchless trunks; others so thin at top, That scarce two crows can lodge on the same tree. Strange things, the neighbours say, have happen'd here; Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs; Dead men have come again and walk'd about; And the great bell has toll'd, unrung, untouch'd. (Such tales their cheer at wake or gossipping, When it draws near to witching time of night.) Oft in the lone church-yard at night I've seen, By glimpse of moonshine chequering thro' the trees, The school-boy with his satchel in his hand, Whistling aloud, to bear his courage up; And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones, (With nettles skirted, and with moss o'ergrown,) That tell in homely phrase who lies below, Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he hears, The sound of something purring at his heels; Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him, Till, out of breath, he overtakes his fellows, Who gather round, and wonder at the tale Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly, That walks at dead of night, or takes its stand O'er some new-open'd grave; and (strange to tell!) Evanishes at crowing of the cock. The new-made widow, too, I've sometimes spy'd, The past endearments of their softer hours, Invidious Grave!-how dost thou rend in sunder Whom love has knit, and sympathy made one? A tie more stubborn far than nature's band. Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul; Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society, I owe thee much. Thou hast deserv'd from me, Far, far beyond what I can ever pay. Oft have I prov'd the labours of thy love, And the warm efforts of the gentle heart, Anxious to please. Oh! when my friend and I L In some thick wood have wander'd heedless on, Sweet murm'ring; methought the shrill-tongued thrush Mended his song of love; the sooty blackbird Of dress.-Oh! then the longest summer's day Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed, Dull Grave!-thou spoil'st the dance of youthful blood, Strik'st out the dimple from the cheek of Mirth, Branding our laughter with the name of madness. And made ev'n thick-lip'd musing Melancholy Before she was aware? Ah! sullen now, And dumb as the green turf that covers them. Where are the mighty thunderbolts of war? The Roman Cæsars, and the Grecian chiefs, The boast of story? Where the hot-brain'd youth, Who the tiara at his pleasure tore From kings of all the then discover'd globe, And cry'd, forsooth, because his arm was hamper'd, And cramm'd into a space we blush to name! That throbs beneath the sacrificer's knife. |