On the Close of the Year 1812.
Dunedin, thy skirts are unhallowed and lone,
And dark are the rocks that encircle thy throne;
The dwelling of beings unbodied is there—
There are spirits abroad, let the traveller beware!
The year on the brink of eternity hung,
The clock had rung long, and the watchman had sung,
And just when the murmurs of midnight grew still,
A symphony broke from the shelve of the hill:
It was not by man, for no mortal was there—
There are spirits abroad, let the traveller beware!
They sung of the year that was passing away,
And the stars hid their blushes in curtain of gray.
Dirge.
Thou art gone, thou art gone, with thy sceptre of dread!
With thy brands of destruction, and wains of the dead;
With thy rolls and thy registers, bloated with woe,
And thy millions of souls to the mansions below.
At the fall of thy bier shall time's sepulchre sigh,
And thy winding-sheet all the lone dwellings shall dye:
Oh, well o'er the shoreless abyss mayest thou shiver,
Down, down to the centre, for ever and ever!
These strains were at midnight heard floating in air:
There are spirits abroad, let the traveller beware!
