For a Marble Tablet in Lichfield Cathedral

Once in the heart, cold in yon narrow cell,
Did each mild grace, each ardent virtue dwell;
Kind aid, kind tears, for others’ want and woe,
For others’ joy, the gratulating glow;
And skill to mark, and eloquence to claim
For genius in each art, the palm of fame.
Ye choral walls, ye lost the matchless song
When the last silence stiffen’d on that tongue.
Ah! who may now your pealing anthems raise
In soul-pour’d tones of fervent pray’r and praise?
SAVILLE, thy lips, twice on thy final day,
Here breath’d, in health and hope, the sacred lay.
Short pangs, ere night, their fatal signal gave.
Quench’d the bright Sun for thee--and op’d the grave!
Now, from that once fair form and beaming face,
Insatiate worms the lingering likeness chase;
But thy pure spirit fled from pains and fears,
To sinless,--changeless,--everlasting spheres.
Sleep then, pale, mortal frame, in yon low shrine,
“Till angels wake thee with a note like thine!”