A thousand antic shapes I take; The stoutest heart at my touch will quake. The miser dreams of a bag of gold, Or a ponderous chest on his bosom rolled. The drunkard groans 'neath a cask of wine; The reveller swelts 'neath a weighty chine. The recreant turns, by his foes assailed, To flee!--but his feet to the ground are nailed. The goatherd dreams of his mountain-tops, And, dizzily reeling, downward drops. The murderer feels at his throat a knife, And gasps, as his victim gasped, for life! The thief recoils from the scorching brand; The mariner drowns in sight of land! Thus sinful man have I power to fray, Torture, and rack, but not to slay! But ever the couch of purity, With shuddering glance, I hurry by. _Then mount! away! To horse! I say, To horse! astride! astride! The fire-drake shoots-- The screech-owl hoots-- As through the air I glide!_ _CHAPTER III_ _THE CHURCHYARD_ Methought I walked, about the mid of night, Into a churchyard. WEBSTER: _The White Devil_. Lights streamed through the chancel window as the sexton entered the churchyard, darkly defining all the ramified tracery of the noble Gothic arch, and illumining the gorgeous dyes of its richly-stained glass, profusely decorated with the armorial bearings of the founder of the fane, and the many alliances of his descendants. The sheen of their blazonry gleamed bright in the darkness, as if to herald to his last home another of the line whose achievements it displayed. Glowing colorings, checkered like rainbow tints, were shed upon the broken leaves of the adjoining yew-trees, and upon the rounded grassy tombs.