ted road:
No choice is left, his feet must tread
The awful dwelling of the dead.
In foul mist doth the pale moon wade,
No twinkling star breaks thro' the shade:
Thick rows of trees increase the gloom,
And awful silence of the tomb.
Swift to his thoughts, unbidden, throng
Full many a tale, forgotten long,
Of ghosts, who at the dead of night
Walk round their graves all wrapt in white,
And o'er the church-yard dark and drear,
Becken the traveller to draw near:
And restless sprites, who from the ground,
Just as the midnight clock doth sound,
Rise slowly to a dreadful height,
Then vanish quickly from the fight:
And wretches who, returning home,
By chance have stumbled near some tomb,
Athwart a coffin or a bone,
And three times heard a hollow groan;
With fearful steps he takes his way,
And shrinks, and wishes it were day.
He starts and quakes at his own tread,
But dare not turn about his head.
Some sound he hears on ev'ry side;
And thro' the trees strange phantoms glide.
His heart beats thick against his breast,
And hardly stays within its chest:
Wild and unsettled are his eyes;
His quicken'd hairs begin to rise:
Ghastly and strong his features grow;
The cold dew trickles from his brow;
Whilst grinning beat his clatt'ring teeth,
And loosen'd knock his joints beneath.
As to the charnel he draws nigh
The whiten'd tomb-stone strikes his eye:
He starts, he stops, his eye-balls glare,
And settle in a death-like stare:
Deep hollow sounds ring in his ear;
Such sounds as dying wretches hear
When the grim dreaded tyrant calls,
A horrid sound, he groans and falls.

Thou do'st our fairest hope destroy;
Thou art a gloom o'er ev'ry joy;
Unheeded let my dwelling be,
O Fear! but far remov'd from thee!

A STORY OF OTHER TIMES.

SOMEWHAT IN IMITATION OF THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

LATHMOR.
But why do'st thou stop on the way, and hold me thus hard in thy grasp?
It was but the voice of the winds from the deep narrow glens of Glanarven.

ALLEN.
The heath is unruffled around, and the oak o'er thy head is at rest:
Calm swells the moon on the lake, and nothing is heard in the reeds.
Sad was the sound, O my father! but it was not the voice of the wind.

LATHMOR.
What dark tow'ring rock do I see 'midst the grey spreading mist of the
hills?
This is not the vale of Clanarven: my son, we have err'd from the way,

ALLEN.
It is not a dark tow'ring rock, 'midst the grey settled mist of the hills.
'Tis a dark tow'r of stren