I'll hear no more; it makes one's blood run chill. 45 Quite round the pile, a row of reverend elms, (Coeval near with that) all ragged show, Long lash'd by the rude winds. Some rift half down Their branchless trunks; others so thin a-top, That scarce two crows could lodge in the same tree. 50 Strange things, the neighbors say, have happen'd here: Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs: Dead men have come again, and walk'd about; And the great bell has toll'd, unrung, untouch'd. (Such tales their cheer, at wake or gossiping,1 55 When it draws near the witching time of night.) Oft in the lone church yard at night By glimpse of moonshine chequering The school-boy, with his satchel in his Has not a wish uncrown'd. Even the lag Rests too in hope of meeting once again 735 When not a single spot of burial-earth, Whether on land, or in the spacious sea, But must give back its long-committed dust 740 745 Night-dews fall not more gently to the 750 ground, 715 Nor weary worn-out winds expire so soft. Behold him! in the evening tide of life, Inviolate and faithfully shall these Make up the full account; not the least atom Embezzled, or mislaid, of the whole tale.1 Each soul shall have a body ready furnished; And each shall have his own. Hence, ye profane: Ask not how this can be. Sure the same power That reared the piece at first, and took it down, Can reassemble the loose scatter'd parts, And put them as they were: Almighty God Has done much more: Nor is his arm impair'd Through length of days; and what he can he will: His faithfulness stands bound to see it done. When the dread trumpet sounds, the slumbering dust, Not unattentive to the call, shall wake; 1 number; count |