For now my only care on earth shall be
Here ev'ry Sunday morn to visit thee;
And in the holy church, with heart sincere,
And humble mind, our worthy curate hear:
He best can tell, when earthly cares are past,
The surest way to meet with thee at last.
I'll thus a while a weary life abide,
Till wasting Time hath laid me by thy side;
For now on earth there is no place for me,
Nor peace, nor slumber, till I rest with thee."

Loud, from the lofty spire, with piercing knell,
Solemn, and awful, toll'd the parish bell;
A later hour than rusties deem it meet
That church-yard ground be trode by mortal feet,
The wailing lover startled at the sound,
And rais'd his head and cast his eyes around.
The gloomy pile in strengthen'd horrour lower'd,
Large and majestic ev'ry object tower'd:
Dim thro' the gloom they shew'd their forms unknown,
And tall and ghastly rose each whiten'd stone:
Aloft the waking screech-owl 'gan to sing,
And past him skim'd the bat with flapping wing.
The fears of nature woke within his breast;
He left the hallowed spot of Mary's rest,
And sped his way the church-yard wall to gain,
Then check'd his coward heart, and turn'd again.
The shadows round a deeper horrour wear;
A deeper silence hangs upon his ear;
A stiller rest is o'er the settled scene;