The Best Fluffy Pancakes recipe you will fall in love with. Full of tips and tricks to help you make the best pancakes.
List! the bell-Sprite stuns my ears
Deeply howling for a boyList!
each worm with trembling hears
And stops his dreadful trade for joy.
For nine times the Death-bell’s Sprite
Slowly from the Steeple cried
And they say at dead of night
Before its time the taper died.
Dumb is the ploughman’s whistle shrill
The milkmaid at her pail is dumb
The schoolboys’ laughing game is still
And mute all evening’s mingl❜d hum.
They laid him while each heart did bleed
[In] cavern dark for wizard worms
Fair as some green ash left to feed
The mountain flocks in winter storms.
I saw him in his grave-cloaths drest—
His chearful cheek did smile as sweet
As when he hied in sabbath vest
At morning k[n]oll his God to meet.—
Hah! white and rayless are his eyes
Fix’d like two lamps to shine no more
Which the cold Morning Shepherd spies
At some deserted mansion’s door.
But will they never shine again
With Love’s soft light ’till sleep’s dim hour?
No now the hand of Death has rung
Their Curfew and they’ll shine no more.
No hollow shriek shall haunt his tomb
Nor grim red glance of meteor furr’d
The glow-worm there shall chear the gloom
And shrill small wailings there be heard.
By frequent feet the grass around
His grave shall all be worn away
Yet never human foot be found
On the green turf hill o’er his clay.
That turf by soft Fays only trod
Whose foot ne’ er burst a drop of dew
—That grave that heaves its [ ] sod
As some green island sweet to view.
The gay lark straining loud his throat
If chance he hang above his bed
Shall drop a strange low mournful note
—He has no other tear to shed.
The woodman at dim morn who blows
The chearing turf his dear wife gave
In the white church-way path shall pause
At footmarks ending at thy grave.—
Maids yet unborn in secret there
Of Death forewarn’ d shall pour the tear;
And children e’er they lisp a prayer
Shall learn thy deathbed to revere.
And should some boy wild in the race
On thy green grave unweeting start,
Strange fear shall [flee across his face]
—Ah! how he stands nor dares depart.
And if a scattered flower be there
Oft as they gather round thy sods
That flower the wandering group shall spare
Nor dare to touch a flower of God’s.