Edward Bulwer-Lytton

The Everlasting Grave-Digge

  Methought I stood amidst a burial-place
    And saw a phantom ply the sexton's trade,
  Pale o'er the charnel bow'd the phantom's face,
                      Noiseless the phantom spade
                        Gleam'd in the stars.

  Wondering I ask'd, "Whose grave dost thou prepare?"
    The labouring ghost disdainful paused and said,
  "To dig the grave is Death my father's care,
                      I disinter the dead
                        Under the stars."

  Therewith he cast a skull before my feet,
    A skull with worms encircled, and a crown,
  And mouldering shreds of Beauty's winding-sheet.
                      Chilling and cheerless down
                        Shimmer'd the stars.

  "And of the Past," I sigh'd, "are these alone
    The things disburied? spare the dread repose,
  Or bring once more the monarch to his throne,
                      To Beauty's cheek the rose."
                        Cloud wrapt the stars,

  While the pale sexton answer'd, "Fool, away!
    Thou ask'st of Memory that which Faith must give;
  Mine is the task to disinter the clay,
                      Hers to bid life revive,"--
                        Cloud left the stars.