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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 moon-line, 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 dares not look behind him,
Till out of breath, he overtakes his fellows;
Who gather round, and wonder at the tale
of horrid Apparition, all and ghaſtly,
That walk 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 ſpy'd,
Sad ſight! ſlow moving o'er the proſtrate dead;
Liſtleſs ſhe crawls along in doleful black,
Whilſt 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, wilſt buſy meddling Memory,
In barbarous ſucceſſiion, muſters up
The paſt endearments of their ſofter hour!
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 morc ſtubborn far than Nature's band.
Friendſhip! myſterious cement of the ſoul;
