Classic Poem

When Sol rolled blazing far below the world,
And night our hemisphere in darkness furled; —
When the pale moon forgot to shed her light,
And stars to ope their eyelids on the night; —
When half the world inhaled the soothing charms
Of balmy sleep, in Somnus' peaceful arms, —
When busy sounds were lulled into repose,
And love-sick hearts knew nothing of their woes,
And all was silent save the distant sound
Of Sentinel, upon his lonely round.
Then from the gloom came forth a fiendish train,
With darkened faces bending o'er the plain,
And hearts of deepest dye, to steal the dead,
And so bereave them even of Death's lone bed. —
Quietly they move with cautious step and slow.
Peering about like demons from below,
Let loose from the infernal Devil's den!
To trample on the peaceful rights of men.
Their flashing eyes of fury, fear, and spite,
Turn on their orbits with a glare so bright,
As pierces through the darkness, and they wave
Each other to the latest honoured grave.
Whilst one keeps watch, another with the spade,
Has turned the turf from off the silent dead;
And now begins the Plunder of the Tomb,
Regardless of its sacredness and gloom.

But, hark! he strikes the irons clenched around,
And half-reposing watchmen hear the sound, —
Who step along to see if all be right,
And mark what wakes the slumbers of the night.
The snatchers view them wending o'er the aisle,
Their confidence must now do aught but fail;
Dauntless, by long experience so base,
Each, one is master of the others ways;
So quietly they sink beneath a stone,
The patrol pass, and all is yet unknown;
A little longer, all again is still,
And now the midnight robbers have their will.
The coffin-lid, still fresh, appears in view,
And they undo each lately fastened screw, —
Fixed, while a Household's tears were o'er it shed,
In lamentation for the spirit fled: —
A scene of thrilling horror now appears,
And from its confine, 'mid their hellish sneers,
The corse is drawn, arrayed in shroudy white,
Which once was thought would ne'er attract the sight.
Just now, perhaps, and weeping for the dead,
Some soul-wrung sultry tears, are sadly shed
From friendly eyes, which fancy they behold
The clayey mansion, where their friend lies cold —
The monumental stone above his head,
Which speaks the solemn tale that he is dead —
The Golgotha of silence, and of rest,
Where troubles cease to agitate the breast.
But could they picture to their fancy's mind,
What passes now, by ruffian hands unkind, —
Could they imagine, that same one they bore
Unto the grave, with anguish-riven core,
Is now a spectacle to vulgar eyes,
And all unshrouded on the green turf lies, —
Oh! such a thought would petrify the heart,
And sting the bosom, with a mortal smart.
But now all being finished and made right,
The corse rolled up and carried from the sight. —
For some had gone, whilst others did delay,
To fill the urn again with clammy clay. —
And thus all being finished, they retire,
Their bosoms swell with a victorious fire,
At having now secured their wished-for prize,
And 'scaped the guards' too unsuspecting eyes;
And that they may elude the watchmen too,
Through field and fence their journey they pursue,
Till soon alighting at the destined place,
They wipe the perspiration from their face,
And having hid their burden, home each hies,
To close awhile his hard unfeeling eyes.
Day breaks, — and with the glimmer of the light —
The Patrol come, all weary of the night;
Pace round the aisle with half-dejected air,
But see no trace of what has happened there,
And so with careless look and heavy eye
Each with a lazy tongue repeats " good bye. "
Thus night by night, the Dead are stolen away
From out the gloomy world of soulless clay, —
And friends will come and weep o'er nothing there;
Raising to heaven the eye of dire despair;
And with loud lamentations, load the drowsy air.