From the dark caverns of the blustering god,

155 They burst away, and sweep the dewy lawn.

Hope gives them wings, while she's spurred on by fear.

The welkin rings, men, dogs, hills, rocks, and woods, In the full concert join. Now, my brave youths, Stripped for the chase, give all your souls to joy! 160 See how their coursers, than the mountain roe More fleet, the verdant carpet skim, thick cloud Snorting they breathe, their shining hoofs scarce print The grass unbruised; with emulation fired They strain to lead the field, top the barred gate, 165 O'er the deep ditch exulting bound, and brush The thorny-twining hedge: the riders bend

O'er their arched necks; with steady hands, by turns Indulge their speed, or moderate their rage. Where are their sorrows, disappointments, wrongs, 170 Vexations, sickness, cares? All, all are gone,

And with the panting winds lag far behind.

ROBERT BLAIR

FROM THE GRAVE

WHILE Some affect the sun, and some the shade,
Some flee the city, some the hermitage;
Their aims as various, as the roads they take
In journeying through life; -the task be mine,
To paint the gloomy horrors of the tomb;
Th' appointed place of rendezvous, where all
These travellers meet. - Thy succours I implore,
Eternal king! whose potent arm sustains

The keys of Hell and Death. The Grave, dread

thing!

Men shiver when thou'rt named: Nature appalled

5

ΙΟ

Shakes off her wonted firmness. Ah! how dark

Thy long-extended realms, and rueful wastes!
Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark

night,

Dark as was chaos, ere the infant Sun

Was rolled together, or had tried his beams

Athwart the gloom profound. The sickly taper,

By glimmering through thy low-browed misty vaults, (Furred round with mouldy damps, and ropy slime,) Lets fall a supernumerary horror,

15

20 And only serves to make thy night more irksome.
Well do I know thee by thy trusty Yew,
Cheerless, unsocial plant! that loves to dwell
'Midst skulls and coffins, epitaphs and worms:
Where light-heeled ghosts, and visionary shades,
25 Beneath the wan, cold Moon (as Fame reports)
Embodied, thick, perform their mystic rounds,
No other merriment, dull tree! is thine.

See yonder hallowed fane; - the pious work
Of names once famed, now dubious or forgot,
30 And buried midst the wreck of things which were;
There lie interred 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, 35 Rooked in the spire, screams loud; the gloomy aisles Black plastered, and hung round with shreds of 'scutcheons,

And tattered coats of arms, send back the sound,

Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults,

The mansions of the dead. - Roused from their

slumbers,

40 In grim array the grisly spectres rise,

Grin horrible, and, obstinately sullen,

Pass and repass, hushed as the foot of night.
Again the screech-owl shrieks - ungracious sound!
I'll hear no more; it makes one's blood run chill.
45 Quite round the pile, a row of reverend elms,

(Coeval near with that) all ragged show,

Long lashed by the rude winds. Some rift half down Their branchless trunks; others so thin at top,

That scarce two crows can lodge in the same tree. Strange things, the neighbours say, have happened

here;

Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs;
Dead men have come again, and walked about;
And the great bell has tolled, unrung, untouched.
(Such tales their cheer at wake or gossiping,
When it draws near to witching time of night.)

Oft in the lone churchyard at night I've seen,

By glimpse of moonshine chequering through the trees,
The school boy, with his satchel in his hand,
Whistling aloud to keep 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,

50

55

60

65

Who gather round and wonder at the tale

Of horrid apparition tall and ghastly,

That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand

O'er some new-opened grave; and, strange to tell!
Evanishes at crowing of the cock.

70

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85

Insidious 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, Sweetner of life, and solder of society,

90 I owe thee much. Thou hast deserved from me, Far, far beyond what I can ever pay.

Oft have I proved the labours of thy love,

And the warm efforts of the gentle heart,

Anxious to please. Oh! when my friend and I
95 In some thick wood have wandered heedless on,
Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down
Upon the sloping cowslip-covered bank,
Where the pure limpid stream has slid along
In grateful errors through the underwood,

100 Sweet murmuring; methought the shrill-tongued thrush
Mended his song of love; the sooty blackbird
Mellowed his pipe, and softened every note:
The eglantine smelled sweeter, and the rose
Assumed a dye more deep; whilst ev'ry flower
105 Vied with its fellow-plant in luxury

Of dress - Oh! then the longest summer's day
Seemed too too much in haste; still the full heart
Had not imparted half: 'twas happiness

Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed,

110 Not to return, how painful the remembrance!

Dull Grave!-thou spoilest the dance of youthful blood,