By the lone yew, or lime, or elm-girt mound,
Its modest fabric: clear, and pleasant sound
Of bells, the grey embattled tower that wears
Of changeful hue the marks of bye-gone years,
Buttress, and porch, and arch with mazy round
Of curious feet or shapes fantastic crown’d;
Tall pinnacles and mingled window tiers,
Norman, or misnamed Gothic. Fairer spot
Thou givest not, England, to the tasteful eye,
Nor to the heart more soothing. Blest their lot!