"Now from yon black and fun’ral Yew, That bathes the Charnel House with Dew, Methinks I hear a Voice begin; (Ye Ravens, cease your croaking Din, Ye tolling Clocks, no Time resound O’er the long Lake and midnight Ground) It sends a Peal of hollow Groans, Thus speaking from among the Bones: When Men my Scythe and Darts supply, How great a King of Fears am I! They view me like the last of Things: They make, and then they dread, my Stings. Fools! if you less provok’d your Fears, No more my Spectre-Form appears. Death’s but a Path that must be trod, If Man wou’d ever pass to God: A Port of Calms, a State of Ease From the rough Rage of swelling Seas. Why then thy flowing sable Stoles, Deep pendant Cypress, mourning Poles, Loose Scarfs to fall athwart thy Weeds, Long Palls, drawn Herses, cover’d Steeds, And Plumes of black, that as they tread, Nod o’er the ’Scutcheons of the Dead?"