The Trees along the Coast, Stretch forth to Heaven their blasted Arms, As if they plaind the North-winds harms, And Youthful Verdure lost. There stands a Grove of Fatal Ewe, Where Sun nere pierc't, nor Wind ere blew. In it a Brooke doth fleet, The Noise must guide thy Feet, For there's no Light, But all is Night, And Darkness that you meet.
IV.
Follow th'Infernal Wave, Until it spread into a Floud, Poysoning the Creatures of the Wood, There twice a day a Slave, I know not for what Impious Thing, Bears thence the Liquor of that Spring. It adds to the sad Place, To hear how at each Pace, He curses God, Himself, his Load, For such his Forlorn Case.
V.
Next make no Noyse, nor talk, Until th'art past a Narrow Glade, Where Light does only break the Shade; 'Tis a Murderers Walk. Observing this thou need'st not fear, He sleeps the Day or Wakes elsewhere. Though there's no Clock or Chime, The Hour he did his Crime, His Soul awakes, His Conscience quakes And warns him that's the Time.
VI.
Thy Steps must next advance, Where Horrour, Sin, and Spectars dwell, Where the Woods Shade seems turn'd Hell, Witches here Nightly Dance, And Sprights joyn with them when they call, The Murderer dares not view the Ball. For Snakes and Toads conspire, To make them up a Quire. And for their Light, And Torches bright, The Fiends dance all on fire.
VII.
Press on till thou descrie Among the Trees sad, gastly, wan, Thinne as the Shadow of a Man, One that does ever crie, She is not; and she ne're will be, Despair and Death come swallow me, Leave him; and keep thy way, No more thou now canst stray Thy Feet do stand, In Sorrows Land, It's Kingdomes every way.