Save yonder crowd’s obscene and drunken jests;
Save where the houseless wanderer, forlorn,
Casts on yon steeple clock his hopeless eye,
Counting the dull, slow hours, until the morn—
Another day to suffer, or to die.
Beneath that steeple clock, beneath those stones,—
Beneath that earth piled up in many a heap,
Scarce covering their poor dishonour’d bones,
Past generations of our fathers sleep.
Sleep! do we mock the word? This crowded tomb,