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Well do I know thee by thy trusty Yew,
Chearless, unsocial plant; that loves to dwell
'Midst skulls and coffins, epitaphs and worms:
Where light-heel'd ghosts and visionary shades
Beneath the wan cold moon (as same 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, now 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, screams loud; the gloomy isles,
Black plaister'd, and hung 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 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,
(Coæval near with that,) all ragged shew
Long lash'd by the rude winds. Som rift half down
Their branchless 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 issu'd from the hollow tombs;
Dead men have come again, and walk'd about;
And the great bell has toll'd, unrung, untouch'd