FOR THEM, obedient to their will,
And trembling at their mighty skill,
Sad SPIRITS, summon'd from the tomb,
Glide ghastly glaring thro' the gloom.
In all the usual Pomp of storms,
In horrid customary forms,
A Wolf, a Bear, a Horse, an Ape,
As Fear and Fancy give them shape,
Tormented with despair and pain,
They roar, they yell, and clank the chain.
FOLLY and GUILT (for GUILT, howe'er
The face of Courage it may wear,
Is still a Coward at the heart)
At fear-created phantoms start.
The PRIEST, that very word implies
That he's both innocent and wise,
Yet fears to travel in the dark,
Unless escorted by his CLERK.