Dreams of the Broken Churchyard

There was a churchyard by the dell—
An awful, dreaded spot
That stands in shadow by the hill,
Whose barren roots have rot.

The church is old and moldering
With spires void of spine;
And bats in belfries loitering,
Asleep by tolless time;

And in the walls inscribed a skull
With tapers underneath,
That spoke of monks in drunken lull
By Word of Sword unsheathed.

How, lost they were in witchcraft rites
Amongst the swirling mist
That transfixed every Arab Night
One thousand one, to list.

Obsessive drinking of the blood
Of flaming infidel
Brought with its draught a thought that would
Assign its deathly knell.

Whereby these thoughts I thought had passed
And, sitting down to think,
The vision ere did end at last
And fell far down the brink.

And I awoke, by belfry call,
To find it was not dream at all.