Lo I, the man who from the Muse did ask
Her deepest notes to swell the Patriot's meeds,
Am now enforced, a far unfitter task,
For cap and gown to leave my minstrel weeds;
For yon dull tone, that tinkles on the air,
Bids me lay by the lyre and go to morning prayer.

O how I hate the sound! it is the knell
That still a requiem tolls to Comfort's hour;
And loath am I, at Superstition's bell,
To quit or Morpheus' or the Muse's bower:
Better to lie and doze, than gape amain,
Hearing still mumbled o'er the same eternal strain.

Thou tedious herald of more tedious prayers,
Say, dost thou ever summon from his rest
One being wakening to religious cares?
Or rouse one pious transport in the breast?
Or rather, do not all reluctant creep
To linger out the time in listlessness or sleep?

I love the bell that calls the poor to pray,
Chiming from village church its cheerful sound,
When the sun smiles on Labor's holy-day,
And all the rustic train are gather'd round,
Each deftly dizen'd in his Sunday's best,
And pleased to hail the day of piety and rest.

And when, dim shadowing o'er the face of day,
The mantling mists of even-tide rise slow,
As through the forest gloom I wend my way,
The minster curfew's sullen voice I know,
And pause, and love its solemn toll to hear,
As made by distance soft it dies upon the ear.

Nor with an idle nor unwilling ear
Do I receive the early passing-bell;
For, sick at heart with many a secret care,
When I lie listening to the dead man's knell,
I think that in the grave all sorrows cease,
And would full fain recline my head and be at peace.

But thou, memorial of monastic gall!
What fancy sad or lightsome hast thou given?
Thy vision-scaring sounds alone recall
The prayer that trembles on a yawn to heaven,
The snuffling, snaffling Fellow's nasal tone,
And Romish rites retain'd, though Romish faith be flown.