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Well do I know thee by thy truſty Yew,
Ghearleſs, 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, nor dubious or forgot,
And bury'd 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
Rooks in the ſpire, ſcream loud——the gloomy iſles,
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
ſlumbers,
In grim array the griſly ſpectres riſe,
Grin horribly, and obſtinately fallen
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
(Coræval near with that.) all ragged ſhew,
Long laſh'd by the rude winds ——Some riſt half-down
Their brauchleſs trunks ——others ſo thin a-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!
