_In A Churchyard._

There may be seeming calm above, but no!-- There is a pulse below which ceases not, A subterranean working, fiery hot, Deep in the million-hearted bosom, though Earthquakes unlock not the prodigious show Of elemental conflict; and this spot Nurses most quiet bones which lie and rot, And here the humblest weeds take root and grow. There is a calm upon the mighty sea, Yet are its depths alive and full of being, Enormous bulks that move unwieldily; Yet, pore we on it, they are past our seeing!-- From the deep sea-weed fields, though wide and ample, Comes there no rushing sound: these do not trample!