William Congreve (1670–1729)

Almeria.—It was thy fear, or else some transient wind

Whistling through hollows of this vaulted aisle:

No, all is hushed and still as death. ’Tis dreadful!

How reverend is the face of this tall pile,

Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads

To bear aloft its arched and ponderous roof,

By its own weight made steadfast and immovable,

Looking tranquillity! It strikes an awe

And terror on my aching sight; the tombs

And monumental caves of death look cold,

And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart.

Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice;

Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear

Thy voice;—my own affrights me with its echoes.