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Who gather round, and wonder at the tale Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly, That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand O'er some new-open'd grave; and, Evanishes at crowing of the cock.

The schoolboy, with his satchel in his hand, Whistling aloud to bear his courage up.

Smiled like yon knot of cowslips on a cliff.

The best-concerted schemes men lay for fame, Die fast away: only themselves die faster. The far-fam'd sculptor, and the laurell'd bard, Those bold insurancers of deathless fame, Supply their little feeble aids in vain.

Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul, Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society.

The good he scorned Stalked off reluctant, like an ill-used ghost, Not to return; or if it did, in visits Like those of angels, short and far between.

The grave, dread thing! Men shiver when thou'rt named: Nature appalled, Shakes off her wonted firmness.

See yonder maker of the dead man's bed, The sexton, hoary-headed chronicle, Of hard, unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole A gentle tear.

The tap'ring pyramid, the Egyptian's pride, And wonder of the world, whose spiky top Has wounded the thick cloud.

When it draws near to witching time of night.

The common damn'd shun their society.

But if there be an hereafter, And that there is, conscience, uninfluenc'd And suffer'd to speak out, tells every man, Then must it be an awful thing to die; More horrid yet to die by one's own hand.

Our time is fixed, and all our days are number'd; How long, how short, we know not:--this we know, Duty requires we calmly wait the summons, Nor dare to stir till Heaven shall give permission.

Th' oppressive, sturdy, man-destroying villains, Who ravag'd kingdoms, and laid empires waste, And in a cruel wantonness of power, Thinn'd states of half their people, and gave up To want the rest.

Ye undertakers, tell us, 'Midst all the gorgeous figures you exhibit, Why is the principal conceal'd, for which You make this mighty stir?

Ye undertakers, tell us, 'Midst all the gorgeous figures you exhibit, Why is the principal conceal'd, for which You make this mighty stir?

Careless, unsocial plant! that loves to dwell 'Midst skulls and coffins, epitaphs and worms: Where light-heel'd ghosts and visionary shades, Beneath the wan, cold Moon Embodied, thick, perform their mystic rounds No other merriment, dull tree! is thine.