Written in Disgust of Vulgar Superstition

The church bells toll a melancholy round,Calling the people to some other prayers,Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares,More hearkening to the sermon's horrid sound.Surely the mind of man is closely boundIn some black spell; seeing that each one tearsHimself from fireside joys, and Lydian airs,And converse high of those with glory crown'd.Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp,—A chill as from a tomb, did I not knowThat they are dying like an outburnt lamp;That 't is their sighing, wailing ere they goInto oblivion;—that fresh flowers will grow,And many glories of immortal stamp.