There is a spot in Life’s vain scene,
Which oft, with willing feet, I tread;
It is yon still, sequester’d green,[[24]]
Where lowly sleep the nameless dead.
There, underneath that elm’s soft shade,
Now waving in the zephyr’s breath,
Belov’d Priscilla, thou art laid,
Within thy grassy home of Death!
I would not call thee back again
To this dark world, unworthy thee,