GRANTA. A MEDLEY.
61
17.
'Tis morn:—from these I turn my sight:
What scene is this which meets the eye?
A numerous crowd array'd in white,[1]
Across the green in numbers fly.
18.
Loud rings in air the chapel bell;
'Tis hush'd:—what sounds are these I hear?
The organ's soft celestial swell
Rolls deeply on the listening ear.
19.
To this is join'd the sacred song,
The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain;
Though he who hears the music long,[2]
Will never wish to hear again.
20.
Our choir would scarcely be excus'd,
E'en as a band of raw beginners;
All mercy, now, must be refus'd[3]
To such a set of croaking sinners.
21.
If David, when his toils were ended,
