WHILST Some affect the sun, and some the shade, Some flee the city, some the hermitage; Their aims are various as the roads they take In journeying through life;-the task be mine The keys of hell and death.-The Grave, dread thing! Thy long-extended realms, and rueful wastes ! Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark night, Was rolled together, or had tried his beams And only serves to make thy night more irksome. See yonder hallow'd fane! the pious work Of names once famed, now dubious or forgot, There lie interr'd the more illustrious dead. The wind is up: hark! how it howls! Methinks Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul bird, The mansions of the dead.-Roused 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. I'll hear no more; it makes one's blood run chill. Long lash'd by the rude winds: some rift half down That scarce two crows could lodge in the same tree. Oft, in the lone church-yard at night I've seen, And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones, Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he hears, 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 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! I owe thee much, Thou hast deserved from me, Oft have I proved the labors of thy love, Anxious to please. Oh! when my friend and I Where the pure limpid stream has slid along In grateful errors through the underwood, Sweet murmuring; methought, the shrill-tongued thrush The eglantine smell'd sweeter, and the rose Of dress.-Oh! then, the longest summer's day 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; Where are the jesters now? The men of health |