Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/219



night winds rave O'er the fresh scooped grave, And the dead therein that lie, Glare upward to the sky; When gibbering imps sit down, To feast on lord or clown, And tear the shroud away From their lithe and pallid prey; Then clustering close, how grim They munch each withered limb! Or quarrel for dainty rare, The lip of lady fair— The tongue of high-born dame, That never would defame, And was of scandal free As any mute could be! Or suck the tintless cheek Of maiden mild and meek; And when in revel rout They kick peeled skulls about,