Though framed uncouth, or sculptured rude,
With ivy twining round its porch
Amidst a leafy solitude.
It’s moss-clad stones, the verdure round,
The yew tree’s shadow, dim and wan,
The wild-flowers o’er each burial mound
Seem speaking more of God than man.
Unlike the dark sepulchral vault,
In towns where corses crowded lie;
Such quiet scenes our thoughts exalt