His lantern gleaming down the glade,
One, like a sexton with his spade,[[11]]
Comes from their caverns to exclude
The mid-night prowlers of the wood.—
Through fields of air while pausing slow,
Yon death-bell tells the village woe!
Born on her clouds when Darkness flings
O’er the still air her raven wings,
Ere yet the watery freight descends,
While Heaven it’s purposes suspends,