Part Fenced By Man, Part By A Rugged Steep That Curbs A Foaming Brook, A Grave-Yard Lies; The Hare'S Best Couching-Place For Fearless Sleep; Which Moonlit Elves, Far Seen By Credulous Eyes, Enter In Dance. Of Church, Or Sabbath Ties, No Vestige Now Remains; Yet Thither Creep Bereft Ones, And In Lowly Anguish Weep Their Prayers Out To The Wind And Naked Skies. Proud Tomb Is None; But Rudely-Sculptured Knights, By Humble Choice Of Plain Old Times, Are Seen Level With Earth, Among The Hillocks Green: Union Not Sad, When Sunny Daybreak Smites The Spangled Turf, And Neighbouring Thickets Ring With 'Jubilate' From The Choirs Of Spring!