The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
Now Night, the negro, reign'd—‘Past one o'clock,’
The drowsy watchman bawl'd—from murky vaults,
The dough-fac'd spectres crowded forth—the eye,
The sunk, the wearied eye of Toil, was clos'd:
Mute, Nature's busied voice, her brawl and hum;
While Horror, creeping on the world of gloom,
Breath'd her dark spirit through the death-like hour—
Now from her silver-fringed east the moon
Peep'd on the vast of shade—up-mounting slow,
In solemn stillness, till her lab'ring orb,
Freed from the caves of darkness, gain'd its sphere,
And mov'd in splendid solitude along.
At this blank hour of awe, amid her fane,
That caught a partial radiance on its walls
A radiance stealing on the shadowy tombs,
Illuminating death,—the pious maid,
Whose flesh did wonders in its days of bloom,
And bones work'd marvels when she smil'd no ore,
The pensive Margaretta stalk'd, and paus'd,
And paus'd and stalk'd, and stalk'd and paus'd agen;
Now nailing to the twilight floor her eye;
Now gazing on the holy windows dim;
Now motionless, and now with hurrying step
Along the hollow-sounding aisle she pass'd;
And leaning lorn at murder'd Raleigh's tomb,
Of Silence wak'd the pale and sacred sleep,
With plaintive accent, thus ------
The drowsy watchman bawl'd—from murky vaults,
The dough-fac'd spectres crowded forth—the eye,
The sunk, the wearied eye of Toil, was clos'd:
Mute, Nature's busied voice, her brawl and hum;
While Horror, creeping on the world of gloom,
Breath'd her dark spirit through the death-like hour—
Now from her silver-fringed east the moon
Peep'd on the vast of shade—up-mounting slow,
In solemn stillness, till her lab'ring orb,
Freed from the caves of darkness, gain'd its sphere,
And mov'd in splendid solitude along.
At this blank hour of awe, amid her fane,
That caught a partial radiance on its walls
A radiance stealing on the shadowy tombs,
Illuminating death,—the pious maid,
Whose flesh did wonders in its days of bloom,
And bones work'd marvels when she smil'd no ore,
The pensive Margaretta stalk'd, and paus'd,
And paus'd and stalk'd, and stalk'd and paus'd agen;
Now nailing to the twilight floor her eye;
Now gazing on the holy windows dim;
Now motionless, and now with hurrying step
320
And leaning lorn at murder'd Raleigh's tomb,
Of Silence wak'd the pale and sacred sleep,
With plaintive accent, thus ------
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |