Lets fall a supernumerary horror,

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) Embodied thick, perform their mystic rounds. No other merriment, dull tree, is thine!

See yonder hallow'd fane! the pious work Of names once famed, 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 creak, and windows clap, and night's foul bird
Rook'd in the spire screams loud; the gloomy ailes
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. Roused from their
slumbers,

In grim array the grizly spectres rise,

Grin horrible, and obstinately sullen

'Pass and repass, hush'd as the foot of night.

Again! the screech-owl shrieks: uugracious sound! I'll hear no more; it makes one's blood run chill. Quite round the pile, a row of reverend elms, Coeval near with that, all ragged show,

Long lash'd by the rude winds: some rift half down Their branchless trunks; others so thin a-top, That scarce two crows could lodge in 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 gossiping, 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 through 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 lie 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 his 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 spied, 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 lonely 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!
Sweetener of life, and solder of society!

I owe thee much. Thou hast deserved from me
Far, far beyond what I can ever pay.

Oft have I proved the labours of thy love,
And the warm efforts of the gentle heart
Anxious to please. O! when my friend and I
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 through the underwood

Sweet murmuring; 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
Assumed a dye more deep; whilst every flower
Vied with his fellow plant in luxury

Of dress. O! 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;

Strikest out the dimple from the cheek of mirth, And every smirking feature from the face;

Branding our laughter with the name of madness.
Where are the jesters now? the man of health,
Complexionally pleasant? where the droll,
Whose every look and gesture was a joke
To clapping theatres and shouting crowds,
And made ev'n thick-lipp'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 cried, 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 bound up in his swathes, Or victim tumbled flat upon his 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 hoped for in the peaceful Grave,
Of being unmolested and alone.
Araby's gums and odoriferous drugs,
And honours by the heralds duly paid

In mode and form, ev'n to a very scruple :

O cruel irony! these come too late;

And only mock whom they were meant to honour.
Surely, there's not a dungeon-slave that's buried
In the highway, unshrouded and uncoffin'd,
But lies as soft, and sleeps as sound as he.
Sorry pre-eminence of high descent

Above the vulgar-born, to rot in state!

But see! the well-plumed hearse comes nodding

on,

Stately and slow; and properly attended
By the whole sable tribe, that painful watch
The sick man's door, and live upon the dead,
By letting out their persons by the hour
To mimic sorrow, when the heart's not sad!
How rich the trappings, now they're all unfurl'd
And glittering in the sun! Triumphant entries
Of conquerors, and coronation pomps,

In glory scarce exceed. Great gluts of people Retard the unwieldy show; whilst from the casements,

And houses' tops, ranks behind ranks close wedged,
Hang bellying o'er. But tell us, why this waste?
Why this ado in earthing up a carcass

That's fallen into disgrace, and in the nostril
Smells horrible? Ye undertakers! tell us,
'Midst all the gorgeous figures you exhibit,
Why is the principal conceal'd, for which
You make this mighty stir? "Tis wisely done :
What would offend the eye in a good picture
The painter casts discreetly into shades.

Proud lineage, now how little thou appear'st!

Below the envy of the private man!
Honour, that meddlesome officious ill,