English Poets of the Eighteenth Century · Chapter 42Robert Blair
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See yonder hallowed fane;—the pious work Of names once famed, now dubious or forgot, 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, 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, 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.
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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 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, 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.
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, 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; 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.
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When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumbering dust, Not unattentive to the call, shall wake, And every joint possess its proper place With a new elegance of form unknown To its first state. Nor shall the conscious soul Mistake its partner, but, amidst the crowd Singling its other half, into its arms Shall rush with all the impatience of a man That's new come home, who having long been absent With haste runs over every different room In pain to see the whole. Thrice happy meeting! Nor time nor death shall part them ever more. 'Tis but a night, a long and moonless night, We make the grave our bed, and then are gone.
Thus at the shut of even the weary bird Leaves the wide air and, in some lonely brake, Cowers down and dozes till the dawn of day, Then claps his well-fledged wings and bears away.