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 't is their sighing, wailing ere they go

      Into oblivion;—that fresh flowers will grow,

And many glories of immortal stamp.