On a wide champian, where the surges beat
Th' extended beach, then sullenly retreat,
A dismal cottage rear'd its turfy head,
O'er which a yew her baleful branches spread;
The owl profane his dreadful dirges sung,
The passing bell the foul night-raven rung;
No village cur here bay'd the cloudless moon,
No golden sunshine chear'd the hazy noon,
But ghosts of men by love of gold betray'd,
In silence glided thro' the dreary shade.
There sat pale Grief in melancholy state,
And brooding Care was trusted with the gate,
Within, extended on the cheerless ground,
An old man lay in golden fillet bound;
Rough was his beard, and matted was his hair,
His eyes were fiery red, his shoulders bare;
Down furrow'd cheeks hot tears had worn their way,
And his broad scalp was thinly strew'd with grey;
A weighty ingot in his hand he prest,
Nor seem'd to feel the viper at his breast.