Classic Poem

What groups, at Sabbath morn, were hither led!
Dejected men with disappointed frown;
Spoil'd youths, the parents' darling and their dread,
From castles in the air hurl'd ruthless down;
The sea-bronzed mariner, the warrior brave,
The keen gold-gatherer, grasping as the grave;
Oft, mid these mouldering walls, which nettles crown,
Stern breasts have lock'd their purpose and been still,
And contrite spirits knelt, to learn their Maker's will.