222 

 EXTRACTS. 



THE CHURCH-YARD. 

 FIRST VOICE. 



How frightful the grave ! how deserted and drear ! 

 With the howls of the storm-wind the creaks of the bier! 

 And the white boDes all clattering together I 



SECOND VOICE. 



How peaceful the grave ! its quiet how deep I 

 Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep, 

 And flowVets perfume it with ether. 



FIRST VOICE. 



There riots the blood-crested worm in the dead, 

 And the yellow skull serves the foul toad for a bed. 

 And snakes in its nettle-weeds hiss. 



SECOND VOICE. 



How lovely, how lone the repose of the tomb ! 

 No tempests are there : — but the nighthigaies come 

 And sing their sweet chorus of bliss. 



FIRST VOICE. 



The ravens of night flap their wings o'er the grave : — 

 'T is the vulture's abode : — *t is the wolfs dreary cave. 

 Where they tear up the earth with their fangs. 



SECOND VOICE. 



There the coney at evening disports with his love. 

 Or rests on the sod ; while the turtles above 

 Repose on the bough that o'erhangs. 



FIRST VOICE. 



There darkness and dampness with poisonous breath. 

 And loathsome decay fill the dwelling of death, 

 The trees are all barren and bare ! 



SECOND VOICE. 



O soft are the breezes that play round the tomb 

 And sweet with the violet's wafted perfume, 

 With lilies and jessamine fair. 



