'Tis morn:—from these I turn my sight:
What scene is this which meets the eye?
A numerous crowd array'd in white,
Across the green in numbers fly.
Loud rings in air the chapel bell;
'Tis hush'd:—what sounds are these I hear?
The organ's soft celestial swell
Rolls deeply on the listening ear.
To this is join'd the sacred song,
The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain;
Though he who hears the music long,
Will never wish to hear again.
Our choir would scarcely be excus'd,
E'en as a band of raw beginners;
All mercy, now, must be refus'd
To such a set of croaking sinners.
If David, when his toils were ended,
- On a saint's day the students wear surplices in chapel.
- But he.—[4to]
- But mercy.—[4to]