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!