IS 
Some lonely saint would here repair, 
As to a fane, for praise and prayer. 
But say, within its shadowy bounds, 
Are such the only sights and sounds 
Recorded? Do its annals show 
No taint of guilt, no trace of woe ? 
Ah, me! a story they unfold 
Belonging to the days of old, 
Which costs sweet Pity to recall 
E’en tears of blood, — a martyr’s fall! 
Why pours the city forth yon countless throng ? 
For revels gay ? No; for the voice of song, 
The merry smile, loud laugh, and lusty cheer 
Are wanting all, — no sign of joy is there: 
Nay, nearer view’d, grief, horror, fear, or ire, 
Gives to each face expression dark and dire ! 
Whether in masses deep they line the way, 
Or form in lesser groups, or singly stray, 
One mighty interest, common to them all, 
Employs each tongue, or holds each heart in thrall. 
What chafes them thus ? and whither do they wend 
Their moody steps ? Near where yon elm doth send 
Its boughs on high, as though it did aspire 
To pierce the clouds, is rear’d a funeral pyre; 
