On Sarum's plains I trod,
Where many a Druid sleeps,
Upreared upon the sod,
The wind their altar sweeps.
There ghosts for ever glide,
Unseen by mortal eye,
Watching time's silent tide,
The wingēd moments fly.
Hundreds of years have pass'd,
Hundreds may pass away,
Their monuments shall last,
Defying dull decay.
Circles are spread around,
And mossy tombs are there;
Alas! beneath the ground
Death doth his court prepare.
In vain would frailty flee
That drear and dread abode,
Gone forth is the decree
Of an Almighty God.
Dust unto dust—yet pause—
Must all—must all—decay,—
Bow to stern nature's laws,
And mingle with her clay?
Yes, all! the beautiful—
The poet and his lute—
The sepulchres are full,
The worshippers are mute.