The thrilling verse that wakes the dead;
Till from out the hollow ground
Slowly breath’d a sullen sound.
Pr.—What call unknown, what charms presume
To break the quiet of the tomb?
Who thus afflicts my troubled sprite,
And drags me from the realms of night?
Long on these mould’ring bones have beat
The winter’s snow, the summer’s heat,
The drenching dews, and driving rain!