sight,
With deeper darkness prints the shades of night,
And mould'ring tombs uncouthly gape around,
And rails and fallen stones bestrew the ground:
In loosen'd garb derang'd, with scatter'd hair,
His bosom open to the nightly air,
Lone, o'er a new heap'd grave poor Basil bent,
And to himself began his simple plaint.

 "Alas! how cold thy home! how low thou art!
Who wert the pride and mistress of my heart.
The fallen leaves light rustling o'er thee pass,
And o'er thee waves the rank and dewy grass.
The new laid sods in decent order tell
How narrow now the space where thou must dwell.
Now rough and wint'ry winds may on thee beat,
And drizzly drifting snow, and summer's heat;
Each passing season rub, for woe is me!
Or storm, or sunshine, is the same to thee.
Ah, Mary! lovely was thy slender form,
And sweet thy cheerful brow, that knew no storm.
Thy steps were graceful on the village-green,
As tho' thou had'st some courtly lady been:
At church or market, still the gayest lass,
Each younker slack'd his speed to see thee pass.
At early milking, tuneful was thy lay,
And sweet thy homeward song at close of day;
But sweeter far, and ev'ry youth's desire,
Thy cheerful converse by the ev'ning fire.
Alas! no more thou'lt foot the grassy sward!
No song of thine shall ever more be heard!
Yet now they trip it lightly on the green,
As blythe and gay as thou hadst never been:
The careless younker whittles lightsome by,
And other maidens catch his roving eye:
Around the ev'ning fire, with little care,
The neighbours sit, and scarcely miss thee there;
And when the night advancing darkens round,
They to their rest retire, and slumber sound.
But Basil cannot rest; his days are sad,
And long his nights upon the weary bed.
Yet still in broken dreams thy form appears,
And still my bosom proves a lover's fears.
I guide thy footsteps thro' the tangled wood;
I catch thee sinking in the boist'rous flood;
I shield thy bosom from the threaten'd stroke;
I clasp thee falling from the headlong rock;
But ere we reach the dark and dreadful deep,
High heaves my troubled breast, I wake, and weep.
At ev'ry wailing of the midnight wind
Thy lowly dwelling comes into my mind.
When rain beats on my roof, wild storms abroad,
I think upon thy bare and beaten sod;
I hate the comfort of a shelter'd home,
And hie me forth o'er fenceless fields to roam:
I leave the paths of men for dreary waste,
And bare my forehead to the howling blast.
O Mary! loss of thee hath fix'd my doom:
This world around me is a weary gloom:
Dull heavy musings down my spirits weigh,
I cannot sleep by night, nor work by day.
Or wealth or pleasure slowest minds inspire,
But cheerless is their toil who nought desire.
Let happier friends divide my farmers' dock,
Cut down my grain, and sheer my little flock;
For now my only care on earth shall be
Here ev'ry Sunday morn to visit thee;
And in the holy church, with heart sincere,
And humble mind, our worthy curate hear:
He best can tell, when earthly cares are past,
The surest way to meet with thee at last.
I'll thus a while a weary life abide,
Till wasting Time hath laid me by thy side;
For now on earth there is no place for me,
Nor peace, nor slumber, till I rest with thee."

  Loud, from the lofty spire, with piercing knell,
Solemn, and awful, toll'd the parish bell;
A later hour than rusties deem it meet
That church-yard ground be trode by mortal feet,
The wailing lover startled at the sound,
And rais'd his head and cast his eyes around.
The gloomy pile in strengthen'd horrour lower'd,
Large and majestic ev'ry object tower'd:
Dim thro' the gloom they shew'd their forms unknown,
And tall and ghastly rose each whiten'd stone:
Aloft the waking screech-owl 'gan to sing,
And past him skim'd the bat with flapping wing.
The fears of nature woke within his breast;
He left the hallowed spot of Mary's rest,
And sped his way the church-yard wall to gain,
Then check'd his coward heart, and turn'd again.
The shadows round a deeper horrour wear;
A deeper silence hangs upon his ear;
A stiller rest is o'er the settled scene;
His flutt'ring heart recoils, and shrinks again.
With hasty steps he measures back the ground,
And leaps with summon'd force the church-yard bound;
Then home with knocking limbs, and quicken'd breath,
His footstep urges from the place of death.

AN ADDRESS TO THE MUSES.

Ye tuneful Sifters of the lyre,
Who dreams and fantasies inspire;
Who over poesy preside,
And on a lofty hill abide
Above the ken of mortal fight,
Fain would I sing of you, could I address ye right.

Thus known, your pow'r of old was sung,
And temples with your praises rung;
And when the song of battle rose,
Or kindling wine, or lovers' woes,
The poet's spirit inly burn'd,
And still to you his upcast eyes were turn'd.

The youth all wrapp'd in vision bright,
Beheld your robes of flowing white:
And knew your forms benignly grand,
An awful, but a lovely band;
And felt your inspiration strong,
And warmly pour'd his rapid lay along.

The aged bard all heav'n-ward glow'd,
And hail'd you daughters of a god:
Tho' to his dimmer eyes were seen
Nor graceful form, nor heav'nly mien,
Full well he felt that ye were near,
And heard you in the blast that shook his hoary hair.

Ye lighten'd up the valley's bloom,
And deeper spread the forest's gloom;
The lofty hill sublimer flood,
And grander rose the mighty flood;
For then Religion lent her aid,
And o'er the mind of man your sacred empire spread.

Tho' rolling ages now are past,
And altars low, and temples wade;
Tho' rites and oracles are o'er,
And gods and heros rule no more;
Your fading honours still remain,
And still your vot'ries call, a long and motley train.

They seek you not on hill and plain,
Nor court you in the sacred sane;
Nor meet you in the mid-day dream,
Upon the bank of hallowed stream;
Yet still for inspiration sue,
And still each lifts his fervent prayer to you.

He knows ye not in woodland gloom,
But wooes ye in the shelfed room;
And seeks you in the dusty nook,
And meets you in the letter'd book;
Full well he knows you by your names,
And still with poets faith your presence claims.

The youthful poet, pen in hand,
All by the side of blotted stand,
In rev'rie deep, which none may break,
Sits rubbing of his beardless cheek;
And well his inspiration knows,
E'en by the dewy drops that trickle o'er his nose.

The tuneful sage of riper fame,
Perceives you not in heated frame;
But at conclusion of his verse,
Which still his mutt'ring lips rehearse,
Oft' waves his hand in grateful pride,
And owns the heav'nly pow'r that did his fancy guide.

O lovely sisters! is it true,
That they are all inspir'd by you?
And while they write, with magic charm'd,
And high enthusiasm warm'd,
We may not question heav'nly lays,
For well I wot, they give you all the praise.

O lovely sisters! well it shews
How wide and far your bounty flows:
Then why from me