172 UEXRY KIliKE white's POEMS. 



Swelling in the nightly gale, 

 The sentry ghost, 

 It keeps its post, 

 And soon, and soon our sports must fail : 

 But hA us trij) the nightly ground, 

 While the merry, merry, bells ring round. 



IIT. 



Hark ! hark ! the death-watch ticks ! 

 Sse, see, the winding-sheet ! 



Our dance is done, 



Our race is run, 

 And we must lie at the alder's feet 



Ding-dong, ding-dong, 



Merry, merry, go the bells. 

 Swinging o'er the weltering wave ! 



And we must seek 



Our deathbeds bleak, 

 "Where the green sod grows upon the grave. 



(Taeif vanish — The Goddess of Consumption descends, habited «i j 

 a slcy-blue Robe — Attended by mournful Music.) I 



Come, Melancholy, sister mine ! 



Cold the dews, and chill the night : 

 Come from thy dreary shrine ! 



The wan moon climbs the heavenly height, 

 And underneath her sickly ray, 

 Troops of squalid spectres play, 

 And the dying mortal's groan 

 Startles the night on her dusky throne. 

 Come, come, sister mine ! 

 Gliding on the pale moonshine : 

 We'll ride at ease. 

 On the tainted breeze, 

 And oh ! our sport will be divine. 



{The Goddess o/jMelancholy advances out of a deep Glen in the 

 rear, habited in Black, and covered ivith a thick Veil — She sj:>eaks.) 



Sister, from my dark abode, 



Where nests the raven, sits the toad. 



