WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
Unclasp the world's close armor from thy heart,
Dismiss the gay companion from thy side,
And if thou canst, elude the practised art
And dull recitative of venal guide;
So shalt thou come aright, with reverent tread,
Unto this solemn city of the dead;
Nor uninstructed mid its haunts abide,
But o'er the dust of heroes moralize,
And learn that humbling lore, which makes the spirit wise.
How silent are ye all, ye sons of song,
Whose harps the music of the earth did make!
How low ye sleep amid the mouldering throng,
Whose tuneful echoes keep the world awake,
While age on age their fleeting transit take!
How damp the vault, where sweeps their banner-fold,
Whose clarion-cry made distant regions quake!
How weak the men of might! how tame the bold!
Chained to the narrow niche, and locked in marble cold.
