WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL IN ONE OF THE AISLES OF
WESTMINSTER ABBEY, WHERE I HAD TAKEN SHELTER
FROM THE EXCESSIVE BRIGHTNESS AND HEAT OF
THE DAY.
BENEATH these solemn shades, this pile sublime,
This splendid record of the lapse of time,
Hid from the garish day, soft let us tread,
And musing wander amid heroes dead.
Yet not to heroes only is the bust
And each proud trophy raised,–behold the just,
The great, the good, the wise a ll here unite,
And kindred virtues pour upon the sight.
Here patent science, heaven-born genius sleep,
Here soul-touch’d tablets on which seraphs weep.
Where’er I pensive step, or look, or turn,
Some drooping statue points the much-loved urn:
Yet bland affection, too, still dries her tear
When laurel’d glory lays the hero here.
(Mrs. Walter Spencer)
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