Stern, stern is the voice of fate’s fearful command,
When accents of horror it breathes in our ear,
Or compels us for aye bid adieu to the land,
Where exists that loved friend to our bosom so dear,

’Tis sterner than death o’er the shuddering wretch bending, 5
And in skeleton grasp his fell sceptre extending,
Like the heart-stricken deer to that loved covert wending,
Which never again to his eyes may appear—­

And ah! he may envy the heart-stricken quarry,
Who bids to the friend of affection farewell, 10
He may envy the bosom so bleeding and gory,
He may envy the sound of the drear passing knell,

Not so deep is his grief on his death couch reposing,
When on the last vision his dim eyes are closing! 
As the outcast whose love-raptured senses are losing, 15
The last tones of thy voice on the wild breeze that swell!

Those tones were so soft, and so sad, that ah! never,
Can the sound cease to vibrate on Memory’s ear,
In the stern wreck of Nature for ever and ever,
The remembrance must live of a friend so sincere. 20

AUGUST, 1810.

14.  SAINT EDMOND’S EVE.

Oh! did you observe the Black Canon pass,
And did you observe his frown? 
He goeth to say the midnight mass,
In holy St. Edmond’s town.

He goeth to sing the burial chaunt, 5
And to lay the wandering sprite,
Whose shadowy, restless form doth haunt,
The Abbey’s drear aisle this night.

It saith it will not its wailing cease,
’Till that holy man come near, 10
’Till he pour o’er its grave the prayer of peace,
And sprinkle the hallowed tear.

The Canon’s horse is stout and strong
The road is plain and fair,
But the Canon slowly wends along, 15
And his brow is gloomed with care.

Who is it thus late at the Abbey-gate? 
Sullen echoes the portal bell,
It sounds like the whispering voice of fate,
It sounds like a funeral knell. 20

The Canon his faltering knee thrice bowed,
And his frame was convulsed with fear,
When a voice was heard distinct and loud,
‘Prepare! for thy hour is near.’

He crosses his breast, he mutters a prayer, 25
To Heaven he lifts his eye,
He heeds not the Abbot’s gazing stare,
Nor the dark Monks who murmured by.

Bare-headed he worships the sculptured saints
That frown on the sacred walls, 30
His face it grows pale,—­he trembles, he faints,
At the Abbot’s feet he falls.

And straight the father’s robe he kissed,
Who cried, ’Grace dwells with thee,
The spirit will fade like the morning mist, 35
At your benedicite.