Thus lonely wand'ring thro' the nightly shade
Against the stern decrees of stubborn Fate,
To mockful Echo my complaints I made,
Of life's short period, or its toilsome state.
'Tis death-like silence all, no sound I hear,
Save the hoarse raven croaking from the sky,
Or scaly beetle murm'ring thro' the air,
Or screech-owl screaming with ill-o men'd cry;
Save when with brazen tongue from yon high tow'r
The clock deep-sounding speaks, and counts the passing hour.