Loud, from the lofty spire, with piercing knell,
Solemn, and awful, toll’d the parish bell;
A later hour than rusties deem it meet
That church-yard ground be trode by mortal feet,
The wailing lover startled at the sound,
And rais’d his head and cast his eyes around. 
The gloomy pile in strengthen’d horrour lower’d,
Large and majestic ev’ry object tower’d: 
Dim thro’ the gloom they shew’d their forms unknown,
And tall and ghastly rose each whiten’d stone: 
Aloft the waking screech-owl ’gan to sing,
And past him skim’d the bat with flapping wing. 
The fears of nature woke within his breast;
He left the hallowed spot of Mary’s rest,
And sped his way the church-yard wall to gain,
Then check’d his coward heart, and turn’d again. 
The shadows round a deeper horrour wear;
A deeper silence hangs upon his ear;
A stiller rest is o’er the settled scene;
His flutt’ring heart recoils, and shrinks again. 
With hasty steps he measures back the ground,
And leaps with summon’d force the church-yard bound;
Then home with knocking limbs, and quicken’d breath,
His footstep urges from the place of death.

AN ADDRESS TO THE MUSES.

Ye tuneful Sifters of the lyre,
Who dreams and fantasies inspire;
Who over poesy preside,
And on a lofty hill abide
Above the ken of mortal fight,
Fain would I sing of you, could I address ye right.

Thus known, your pow’r of old was sung,
And temples with your praises rung;
And when the song of battle rose,
Or kindling wine, or lovers’ woes,
The poet’s spirit inly burn’d,
And still to you his upcast eyes were turn’d.

The youth all wrapp’d in vision bright,
Beheld your robes of flowing white: 
And knew your forms benignly grand,
An awful, but a lovely band;
And felt your inspiration strong,
And warmly pour’d his rapid lay along.

The aged bard all heav’n-ward glow’d,
And hail’d you daughters of a god: 
Tho’ to his dimmer eyes were seen
Nor graceful form, nor heav’nly mien,
Full well he felt that ye were near,
And heard you in the blast that shook his hoary hair.

Ye lighten’d up the valley’s bloom,
And deeper spread the forest’s gloom;
The lofty hill sublimer flood,
And grander rose the mighty flood;
For then Religion lent her aid,
And o’er the mind of man your sacred empire spread.

Tho’ rolling ages now are past,
And altars low, and temples wade;
Tho’ rites and oracles are o’er,
And gods and heros rule no more;
Your fading honours still remain,
And still your vot’ries call, a long and motley train.

They seek you not on hill and plain,
Nor court you in the sacred sane;
Nor meet you in the mid-day dream,
Upon the bank of hallowed stream;
Yet still for inspiration sue,
And still each lifts his fervent prayer to you.