Worn out with anguish, toil and cold and hunger, Down sunk the Wanderer, sleep had seiz'd her senses; There, did the Traveller find her in the morning, GOD had releast her. To the CHAPEL BELL. "Lo I, the man who erst the Muse did ask Her deepest notes to swell the Patriot's meeds, Am now enforst a far unfitter task For cap and gown to leave my minstrel weeds," For yon dull noise that tinkles on the air Bids me lay by the lyre and go to morning prayer. Oh how I hate the sound! it is the Knell, That still a requiem tolls to Comfort's hour; And loth am I, at Superstition's bell, To quit or Morpheus or the Muses bower. Better to lie and dose, than gape amain, Hearing still mumbled o'er, the same eternal strain. Thou tedious herald of more tedious prayers Say hast thou ever summoned from his rest, One being awakening to religious awe? Or rous'd one pious transport in the breast? Or rather, do not all reluctant creep To linger out the hour, in listlessness or sleep? I love the bell, that calls the poor to pray Chiming from village church its chearful sound, When the sun smiles on Labour's holy day, And all the rustic train are gathered round, Each deftly dizen'd in his Sunday's best And pleas'd to hail the day of piety and rest. Or when, dim-shadowing o'er the face of day, The mantling mists of even-tide rise slow, As thro' the forest gloom I wend my way, The minster curfew's sullen roar I know; I pause and love its solemn toll to hear, As made by distance soft, it dies upon the ear. Nor not to me the unfrequent midnight knell Tolls sternly harmonizing; on mine ear As the deep death-fraught sounds long lingering dwell Sick to the heart of Love and Hope and Fear Soul-jaundiced, I do loathe Life's upland steep And with strange envy muse the dead man's dreamless sleep. But thou, memorial of monastic gall! What Fancy sad or lightsome hast thou given? Thy vision-scaring sounds alone recall The prayer that trembles on a yawn to heaven; And this Dean's gape, and that Dean's nosal tone, And Roman rites retain'd, tho' Roman faith be flown. The RACE of BANQUO. Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly! Leave thy guilty sire to die. O'er the heath the stripling fled, The wild storm howling round his head. Fear mightier thro' the shades of night Urged his feet, and wing'd his flight; And still he heard his father cry Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly. Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly Leave thy guilty sire to die. On every blast was heard the moan The anguish'd shriek, the death-fraught groan; Loathly night-hags join the yell And see--the midnight rites of Hell.