Where ghosts and goblins stalk.

The cricket's sharp, discordant scream [5]

Fills mortal sense with dread;

More sorrowful it scarce could seem;

It voices beauty fled.

Yet here, upon this faded sod,—

O happy hours and fleet,— [10]

When songsters' matin hymns to God

Are poured in strains so sweet,

My heart unbidden joins rehearse;