Sonnet: Written In Disgust Of Vulgar Superstition


    The church bells toll a melancholy round,
    Calling the people to some other prayers,
    Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares,
    More hearkening to the sermon's horrid sound.
    Surely the mind of man is closely bound
    In some black spell; seeing that each one tears
    Himself from fireside joys, and Lydian airs,
    And converse high of those with glory crown'd.
    Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp,
    A chill as from a tomb, did I not know
    That they are dying like an outburnt lamp;
    That 'tis their sighing, wailing ere they go
    Into oblivion; that fresh flowers will grow,
    And many glories of immortal stamp.


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