212 WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
And sleeps he sweeter than the humbler crowd, Unmarked by costly arch or sculptured fane ? I Ve seen the turf-mound of the village hind, Where all unsheltered from the wintry wind, Sprang one lone flower of deep and deathless stain ; That simple faith which bides the shock of doom, When bursts the visioned pomp that decked the sa trap s tomb.
Dim Abbey ! neath thine arch the shadowy past O ersweeps our spirits, like the banyan tree,
Till living men, as reeds before the blast,
Are bowed and shaken. Who may speak to thee, Thou hoary guardian of the illustrious dead, With unchilled bosom or a chainless tread ?
Thou breath st no sound, no word of utterance free,
Save now and then a trembling chant from those
Whose Sabbath-worship wakes amid thy deep repose.
For thou the pulseless and the mute hast set, As teachers of a world they loved too well,
And made thy lettered aisles an alphabet,
Where wealth and power their littleness may spell, And go their way the wiser, if they will ; Yea, even thy chisel s art, thy carver s skill,
Thy tracery, like the spider s film-wrought cell,
But deeper grave the lessons of the dead, Their bones beneath our feet, thy dome above our head.
A throng is at thy gates. With lofty head The unslumbering city claims to have her will,
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