Westminster Abbey

Westminster Abbey, With all its doors, Welcomes all, As church bells implore: Come now England, And praise thy Lord, Drop thy shield, And sheath thy sword, So that two hands can pray, Against discord. Inside, the pastor guides his flock, He alone dares cast the rock: Now, turn thine eyes upon the dead, And saintly deeds respect, So that St. Peter at the gates, Your soul redeems, as he inspects, Thy actions for misdeeds. Then thou shalt remember, The beadman at the door, Telling his rosary, as to implore: 'Can I stay this cold,cold, night, And rest in thy corridor?' Then you'd think, Not twice, but once, About thy words, and jests, and jaunts, Against his prescense on thy step, Before thy Fell, or rather, leapt.