Whilst thus the loit'rer's utmost stretch of soul Climbs the still clouds, or passes those that roll, And loos'd _Imagination_ soaring goes High o'er his home, and all his little woes, TIME glides away; neglected Duty calls: At once from plains of light to earth he falls, And down a narrow lane, well known by day, With all his speed pursues his sounding way, In thought still half absorb'd, and chill'd with cold; When, lo! an object frightful to behold; A grisly SPECTRE, cloth'd in silver-gray, Around whose feet the waving shadows play, Stands in his path!... He stops, and not a breath Heaves from his heart, that sinks almost to death. Loud the owl halloos o'er his head unseen; All else is silent, dismally serene: Some prompt ejaculation, whisper'd low, Yet bears him up against the threat'ning foe; And thus poor Giles, though half inclin'd to fly, Mutters his doubts, and strains his stedfast eye. ''Tis not my crimes thou com'st here to reprove; 'No murders stain my soul, no perjur'd love: 'If thou'rt indeed what here thou seem'st to be, 'Thy dreadful mission cannot reach to me. 'By parents taught still to mistrust mine eyes, 'Still to approach each object of surprise 'Lest Fancy's formful visions should deceive 'In moon-light paths, or glooms of falling eve, 'This then's the moment when my heart should try 'To scan thy motionless deformity; 'But oh, the fearful task! yet well I know 'An aged ash, with many a spreading bough, '(Beneath whose leaves I've found a Summer's bow'r, 'Beneath whose trunk I've weather'd many a show'r,) 'Stands singly down this solitary way, 'But far beyond where now my footsteps stay. 'Tis true, thus far I've come with heedless haste; 'No reck'ning kept, no passing objects trac'd:... 'And can I then have reach'd that very tree? 'Or is its reverend form assum'd by thee?' The happy thought alleviates his pain: He creeps another step; then stops again; Till slowly, as his noiseless feet draw near, Its perfect lineaments at once appear; Its crown of shiv'ring ivy whispering peace, And its white bark that fronts the moon's pale face. Now, whilst his blood mounts upward, now he knows The solid gain that from conviction flows; And strengthen'd Confidence shall hence fulfill (With conscious Innocence more valued still) The dreariest task that winter nights can bring, By church-yard dark, or grove, or fairy ring; Still buoying up the timid mind of youth, Till loit'ring Reason hoists the scale of Truth. With these blest guardians _Giles_ his course pursues, Till numbering his heavy-sided ewes, Surrounding stillness tranquilize his breast, And shape the dreams that wait his hours of rest.