Is it to lie with hands uprear’d in prayer,
As many a warrior rests in sculpture rare;
His banner floating o’er the chisell’d stone,
’Neath which, long ages since, he laid him down,
To fear no battle-cry, nor trumpet call,
Till on his startled ear the peal shall fall,
That from the storied tomb, or daisied sod,
Death’s sleepers shall awake to meet their God?
Then will it seek not, if in minster-pile,
While music roll’d through each time-honour’d aisle,