Echo’d though thy wealth shall be,
Monument of England’s fame!
Shining forth in all thy pride,
Worthy of a Paxton’s name.
VI.
Yet Oh! never deem this spot,
Fitting place for Sabbath rest:
Can a sinner seek his God,
’Midst rev’lry and idle jest?
VII.
Is it there, the weary soul,
Rack’d with care and aching woes,
Can with penitence to God,
Ask for mercy and repose?
VIII.
Is it there, the sinless child,
On the Sabbath eve should stray;—
Can it there, untainted still
Bend its tiny knee to pray?
IX.
Oh! ’tis there, its glowing cheek
Will, amidst the worldling’s din,
Receive, unconscious tho’ it be,
The first stain of mortal sin.