forgot, Rooked1 in the spire, screams loud: the gloomy aisles, 35 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, 40 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. Quite round the pile, a row of reverend elms, 45 And buried midst the wreck of things Whistling aloud to bear his courage up, which were; 30 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, And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones, 60 (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, 1 cowering. O'er some new-opened grave; and (strange Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. to tell!) Evanishes at crowing of the cock. WILLIAM COLLINS (1721–1759) A SONG FROM SHAKESPEARE'S CYMBELINE 70 5 By fairy hands their knell is rung, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, 15 Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale May not unseemly with its stillness suit, 1 embroidery. 20 THE PASSIONS AN ODE FOR MUSIC 5 When Music, heavenly maid, was young, First Fear his hand, its skill to try, 10 15 Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of Last came Joy's ecstatic trial. 80 First to the lively pipe his hand ad dressed; But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain, 85 They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids Amidst the festal sounding shades, To some unwearied minstrel dancing, While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, Loved framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round; 90 Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound, And he, admist his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. 95 O Music, sphere-descended maid, 105 Where is thy native simple heart, 1 energetic. |