William Lisle Bowles

The castle clock had tolled midnight: With mattock and with spade, And silent, by the torches’ light, His corse in earth we laid. The coffin bore his name, that those Of other years might know, When earth its secrets should disclose, Whose bones were laid below. “Peace to the dead” no children sung, Slow pacing up the nave,— No prayers were read, no knell was rung, As deep we dug his grave. We only heard the winter's wind, In many a sullen gust, As, o’er the open grave inclined, We murmured, “Dust to dust!” A moonbeam from the arch’s height Streamed, as we placed the stone; The long aisles started into light, And all the windows shone. We thought we saw the banners then, That shook along the walls, Whilst the sad shades of mailèd men Were gazing on the stalls. ’Tis gone! again on tombs defaced Sits darkness more profound; And only by the torch we traced The shadows on the ground. And now the chilling, freezing air Without blew long and loud; Upon our knees we breathed one prayer, Where he slept in his shroud. We laid the broken marble floor,— No name, no trace appears,— And when we closed the sounding door, We thought of him with tears.

Evening! as slow thy placid shades descend, Veiling with gentlest hush the landscape still, The lonely battlement, the farthest hill And wood, I think of those who have no friend; Who now, perhaps, by melancholy led, From the broad blaze of day, where pleasure flaunts, Retiring, wander to the ring-dove’s haunts Unseen; and watch the tints that o’er thy bed Hang lovely; oft to musing Fancy’s eye Presenting fairy vales, where the tir’d mind Might rest beyond the murmurs of mankind, Nor hear the hourly moans of misery! Alas for man! that Hope’s fair views the while Should smile like you, and perish as they smile!

Whose was that gentle voice, that, whispering sweet, Promised methought long days of bliss sincere! Soothing it stole on my deluded ear, Most like soft music, that might sometimes cheat Thoughts dark and drooping! ’Twas the voice of Hope. Of love and social scenes, it seemed to speak, Of truth, of friendship, of affection meek; That, oh! poor friend, might to life’s downward slope Lead us in peace, and bless our latest hours. Ah me! the prospect saddened as she sung; Loud on my startled ear the death-bell rung; Chill darkness wrapt the pleasurable bowers, Whilst Horror, pointing to yon breathless clay, “No peace be thine,” exclaimed, “away, away!”