Ay, 'tis a comely sight to behold, As the company march Through the rounded arch Of that Cathedral old!-- Singers behind 'em, and singers before 'em, All of them ranging in due decorum, Around the inside of the _Sanctum Sanctorum_, While, brilliant and bright, An unwonted light (I forgot to premise this was all done at night) The links, and the torches, and flambeaux shed On the sculptured forms of the Mighty Dead, That rest below, mostly buried in lead, And above, recumbent in grim repose, With their mailed hose, And their dogs at their toes, And little boys kneeling beneath them in rows, Their hands join'd in pray'r, all in very long clothes, With inscriptions on brass, begging each who survives, As they some of them seem to have led so-so lives, To ~Praie for the Sowles~ of themselves and their wives.-- --The effect of the music, too, really was fine, When they let the good prelate down into his shrine, And by old and young The "_Requiem_" was sung; Not vernacular French, but a classical tongue, That is--Latin--I don't think they meddled with Greek-- In short, the whole thing produced--so to speak-- What in Blois they would call a _Coup d'œil magnifique_! Yet, surely, when the level ray Of some mild eve's descending sun Lights on the village pastor, grey In years ere ours had well begun-- As there--in simplest vestment clad, He speaks, beneath the churchyard tree, In solemn tones,--but yet not sad,-- Of what Man is--what Man shall be! And clustering round the grave, half hid By that same quiet churchyard yew, The rustic mourners bend, to bid The dust they loved a last adieu-- --That ray, methinks, that rests so sheen Upon each briar-bound hillock green, So calm, so tranquil, so serene, Gives to the eye a fairer scene,-- Speaks to the heart with holier breath Than all this pageantry of Death.--