back the sound,Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults,The mansions of the dead.--Rous'd from their slumbers,In grim array the grisly spectres rise,Grin horrible, and, obstinately sullen,Pass and repass, hush'd as the foot of night.Again the screech-owl shrieks--ungracious 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 downTheir branchless trunks; others so thin at top,That scarce two crows can 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 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 lie below.Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he hears,The sound of something purring at his heels;Full fast he flies, and dare not look behind him,'Till, out of breath, he overtakes his fellows,Who gather round and wonder at the taleOf horrid apparition tall and ghastly,That walks at dead of night, or takes his standO'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 manShe drops; while busy meddling memory,In barbarous succession, musters upThe past endearments of their softer hours,Tenacious of its theme. Still, still she thinksShe 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 sunderWhom 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 IIn some thick wood have wander'd heedless on,Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us downUpon the sloping cowslip-cover'd bank,Where the pure limpid stream has slid alongIn grateful errors thro' the underwood,Sweet murmuring; methought the shrill-tongued thrushMended his song of love; the sooty blackbirdMellow'd his pipe, and soften'd every note:The eglantine smell'd sweeter, and the roseAssum'd a dye more deep; whilst ev'ry flowerVied with its fellow-plant in luxuryOf dress-- Oh ! then the longest summer's daySeem'd too too much in haste; still the full heartHad not imparted half: 'twas happinessToo exquisite to last. Of joys departed,Not to return, how painful the remembrance !