And only serves to make thy night more irksome.
Well do I know thee by thy trusty yew,

Cheerless, unsocial plant! that loves to dwell
'Midst sculls and coffins, epitaphs and worms;
Where light-heel'd ghosts, and visionary shades,
Beneath the wan cold moon (as fame reports)
Embody'd, thick, perform their mystic rounds.
No other merriment, dull tree! is thine.

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,
Pass and repass, hush'd at the foot of night.
Again the screech-owl shrieks-ungracious sound!
I'll hear no more; it make's one's blood run chill.

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,
Sad sight! slow moving o'er the prostrate dead:
Listless, she crawls along in doleful black,
While bursts of sorrow gush from either eye,
Fast falling down her now untasted cheek.
Prone on the lowly grave of the dear man
She drops; whilst busy meddling Memory,
In barbarous succession, musters up

The past endearments of their softer hours,
Tenacious of its theme. Still, still she thinks
She sees him, and indulging the fond thought,
Clings yet more closely to the senseless turf,
Nor heeds the passenger who looks that way.

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,
Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down
Upon the sloping cowslip-cover'd bank,
Where the pure limpid stream has slid along
In grateful errors thro' the underwood,

Sweet murm'ring; methought the shrill-tongued thrush

Mended his song of love; the sooty blackbird
Mellow'd his pipe, and soften'd every note:
The eglantine smell'd sweeter, and the rose
Assum'd a dye more deep; whilst ev'ry flow'r
Vy'd with his fellow-plant in luxury

Of dress.-Oh! then the longest summer's day
Seem'd too, too much in haste; still the full heart
Had not imparted half: 'twas happiness

Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed,
Not to return, how painful the remembrance!

Dull Grave!-thou spoil'st the dance of youthful blood,

Strik'st out the dimple from the cheek of Mirth,
And ev'ry smirking feature from the face;

Branding our laughter with the name of madness.
Where are the Jesters now? the men of health,
Complexionally pleasant? Where's the droll,
Whose ev'ry look and gesture was a joke
To clapping theatres and shouting crowds,

And made ev'n thick-lip'd musing Melancholy
To gather up her face into a smile

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 had not room enough to do its work?
Alas! how slim, dishonourably slim,

And cramm'd into a space we blush to name!
Proud royalty! how alter'd in thy looks!
How blank thy features, and how wan thy hue!
Son of the morning! whither art thou gone?
Where hast thou hid thy many-spangled head,
And the majestic menace of thine eyes
Felt from afar? Pliant and powerless now,
Like new-born infant wound up in his swathes,
Or victim tumbled flat upon its back,

That throbs beneath the sacrificer's knife.
Mute, must thou bear the strife of little tongues,
And coward insults of the base-born crowd,
That grudge a privilege thou never hadst,
But only hop'd for in the peaceful Grave.