 | Lyra Pastoralis |  |
The Sentinel
OR, CHURCHYARD YEW
The Sentinel—it fills our eyes,
That stately yew, in solemn guise,
Beside the porch, beneath the bell,
Throbbing alike to chime or knell,
With whispered song, or muffled sighs.
That stately yew, in solemn guise,
Beside the porch, beneath the bell,
Throbbing alike to chime or knell,
With whispered song, or muffled sighs.
It lifts a finger to the skies,
And breathes of hope to dust that lies
Under its shade, and guards it well—
The Sentinel.
And breathes of hope to dust that lies
Under its shade, and guards it well—
The Sentinel.
Perchance some words have made it wise,
Which on the wings of anthems rise
Through its dark boughs, and bid it tell
The secret to each narrow cell,
O'er which it broods for centuries—
The Sentinel.
Which on the wings of anthems rise
Through its dark boughs, and bid it tell
The secret to each narrow cell,
O'er which it broods for centuries—
The Sentinel.
| Lyra Pastoralis | |