The Poetical Works of Ann Radcliffe, etc

Front matter

*£->*■* THE POETICAL WORKS 01 ANNE RADCLIFFE. ST. ALBAN'S ABBEY, A METRICAL ROMANCE; WITH OTHER POEMS. BY ANNE RADCLIFFE, AUTHORESS OF "THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO," "ROMANCE OF THE FOREST," &c. IV TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON : PUBLISHED FOR HENRY COLBURN BY R. BENTLEY; SOLD BY ALL BOOKSELLERS. 1834.

ADVERTISEMENT.

. Of the poetical powers of Mrs. Radcliffe, apart from those examples of the spirit of poetry which breathe so vividly through her prose romances, there has hitherto been no adequate impression conveyed to the public — perhaps because they have only been pre sented, for the most part, in subordinate connection with her prose writings. It is intended, by the present collection of such of her detached productions as wear expressly the outward garb of the poetic muse, to give to her merits as a writer of compositions in verse a fairer opportunity for appreciation. The tale of " St. Alban's Abbey" must doubtless prove, in an eminent degree, welcome to the imaginative reader, as super adding to the graces of poetic treatment the charm of a romantic story — that charm in which Mrs. Radcliffe so conspicuously excelled ; and it may be safely af firmed, both of that production and of the minor poems which follow it, that, when examined, they will be found replete with rich imagery and felicitous ex pression.

Canto I. The Abbev

I. Know ye that pale and ancient choir. Whose Norman tower lifts it's pinnacled spire ? Where the long Abbey-aisle extends And battled roof o'er roof ascends ; Cornered with buttresses, shapely and small, That sheltered the Saint in canopied stall ; And, lightened with hanging turrets fair. That so proudly their dental coronals wear, They blend with a holy, a warlike air; While they guard the Martyr's tomb beneath, And patient warriors, laid in death ? it. Know ye that transept's far-stretched line, Where stately turrets, more slenderly fine, Each with a battlement round it's brow, Win the uplifted eye below ? How lovely peers the soft blue sky Through their small double arch on high ! Deepening the darkness of it's shade, And seeming holier peace to spread. More grandly those turrets, mossed and hoar, Upon the crimson evening soar.

Yet lovelier far their forms appear When they lift their heads in the moonlight air ; And softening beams of languid white Tip their shadowy crowns with light. But most holy their look, when a fleecy cloud O'er them throws it's trembling shroud, Then palely thinly dies away, And leaves them to the full bright ray. Thus Sorrow fleets from Resignation's smile ; The virtue lives — the suffering dies the while. in. And, as these moonlight-towers we trace, A living look, a saintly grace Beams o'er them, when we seem to hear The midnight-hymn breathe soft and clear. As from this choir of old it rose. Each hallowed thought they seem to own, Expressed by music's heavenly tone ; w THf ABBEY. And patient, sad, and pale and still, As if resign'd to wait Time's will. Such choral swell and dying close Stole on the Abbot's hour of rest, Like solemn air from spirit blest, And shaped his vision of repose.

The pious instinct of his soul, Not even slumber might control : Soon as he caught the distant lay, His gathering thoughts half woke to pray ; Celestial smile came o'er his brow, Though sealed in sleep the lid below ; And, when in silence died the strain, The lingering prayer His lips forbear, And deep his slumbers fall again. IV. Bold is this Abbey's front, and plain ; The walls no shrined saint sustain, Nor tower, nor airy pinnet crown ; But broadly sweeps the Norman arch Where once in brightened shadow shone King Offa, on his pilgrim-march And proudly points the mouldered stone Of the high-vaulted porch beneath, Where Norman beauty hangs a wreath Of simple elegance and grace ; Where slender columns guard the space On every side, in clustered row, The triple arch through arch disclose, And lightly o'er the vaulting throw The thwart-rib and the fretted rose.

Beside this porch, on either hand, Giant buttresses darkly stand, And still their silent vanguard hold For bleeding Knights, laid here of old ; And* Mercian Offa and his Queen The portal's guard and grace are seen. This western front shows various style, Less ancient than the central pile. No furrows deep upon its brow The frown of seven stern centuries show ; Vet the sad grandeur of the whole Gives it such a look of soul, That, when upon it's silent walls The silvered grey of moonlight falls, • The busts of Offa and his Queen are at the springs of the arch of the great porch. And the fixed image dim appears, It seems some shade of parted years Left watching o'er the mouldering dead, Who here for pious Henry bled, And here, beneath the wide-stretched ground Of nave, of choir, of chapels round, For ever — ever, rest the head. v. Now know ye this pale and ancient Choir, Where the massy tower lifts a slender spire ?

Here forty abbots have ruled_and one, Twenty with pall and mitre on, And bowed them to the Pope alone. Their hundred monks, in black arrayed, The Benedictine rules obeyed ; O'er distant lands they held their sway ; Freed from Peter's-pence were they ; The gift of palle from Pope they claimed, And Cardinal- Abbots were they named ; And even old Canterbury's lord Was long refused the premier board ; For this was the first British Martyr's bier, And the Pope said " His priest shall have no peer :" Now know ye St. Alban's bones rest here. VOL. III. F VI. Kings and heroes here were guests In stately halls, at solemn feasts. But now, nor dais, nor halls remain ; Nor fretted window's gorgeous pane Twilight illuminated throws Where once the high-served banquet rose. VII. No fragment of a roof remains To echo back their wassail strains ; But the long aisles, whose holy gloom Still mourns and veils the martyr's tomb.

The broad grey tower, the turrets wide, Scattered o'er tower and transept, guide The distant traveller to their throne, Where they high-seated watch alone, And seem, with aspect sad, to tell, That they of all their Abbey's power Remain to point, where heroes fell, And monarch met his evil hour, And guileless, meek, and pious, bowed To doubtful right's % -Ctorious crowd. Now, if this cloister, fallen and gone, Ye fain would view, as once it shone, Pace ye, with reverend step, I pray, The grass-grown and forgotten way, While murmurs low the fitful wind, Winning to peace the meeken'd mind ; And Evening, in her solemn stole, With stillness o'er those woods afar, Leads in blue shade her brightening star, As spreads the slow gloom trom the pole, And these old towers their watch more awful keep, (Where once the Curfew spoke with solemn rule) And the faint hills and all the valley sleep In misty grey beneath the " dewy cool."

Yet, if a worldly heart ye wear, These visioned-shades foibear— forbear ! To thee no dim-seen halls may gleam, For thee no hallowed tapers beam On the pale visage through the gloom Bending in prayer by shrine, or tomb. Turn thou thy wearied step away ; Go thou where dance and song are gay, p Or where the sun is flaming high, And leave these scenes to Evening's sigh IX. But ye, with measured step and slow, Whose smile is shaded soft with woe ; And ye, who holy joy can know, The glow beyond all other glow, — Ye, whose high spirit dares to dwell Beyond the reach of earthly spell, And tread upon the dizzy verge Of unknown worlds ; or downward urge, Through ages dim, your steadfast sight, And trace their shapes of shadowed light. O come " with meek submitted thought," With lifted eye, by Rapture taught, And o'er your head the gloom shall rise Of monkish chambers, still and wide, As once they stood • and to your eyes Group after group shall slowly glide, And here again their duties ply, As they were wont, long ages by.

The twilight broods not yet so deep, But we may trace where now they sleep Beneath the sullen turf, aloof, And where each solemn chamber's roof Drew it's strong vaulting o'er their frames, But urged on human praise no claims, Nor always bore their living names. x. On yonder brow, that fronts the West, Where glimmering beams in stillness rest, Once rose the Abbot's Hall of Right, That wont to view Ver's stream below And shallow valley westward go To farthest hills, that owned his might ; And from those farthest hills were seen, Through oaken boughs of stretching green, The fretted window of that hall, The pinnacle, that crowned it's wall, And seemed to watch it's portal grey, With crimson light tinged by the setting ray XI. Thus rose the Abbot's vaulted Hall, Where he, in virtue of the palle, Spoke doom to all his vassal throng ; For life and death were on his tongue, And scarce less ready to fulfill His worldly, than his better will, Were peasant, vavasour, and knight, From London's wall to Beech wood's height.

His weighty robe of velvet fold Was 'broidered round, and clasped with gold. A Prior helped his office to sustain, A hundred monks did dignify his reign. Pale were they and closely shorn, Heedless they were of human scorn And arts that wait on human pride ; In patience each with other vied. 'Mong such had Matthew Paris stood, Pious, learned, wise and good, Though shrouded in a bigot's hood. XII. Here, where the deeper shadows fall, Once echoed o'er the paved hall The weary step and staff of him, Who, at this lonely hour and dim, The last chill hour of eventide, Had heard from yonder bleak hill side. 10!J THE ABBEY. Where once stood Roman Verulam, Faint o'er the wintry waters come The bell of Compline, chiming slow From forth this Abbey's unseen tower, And spied, amid the shades below, The hearth-blaze in the stranger's bower ; For here the Pilgrim's Lodge arose, Whose porch and hall and parlour warm And well-closed chambers of repose Received him from the rushing storm.

XIII. And, when he reached the cheering blaze, How sweet to think upon those ways, As the shrill wind and sleety rain Against the casements strove in vain. But crowding thoughts soon chased repose, And nigh to sacred rapture rose, As now he knew himself so near The object of his long career, And, safely placed, where all around Was ancient, consecrated ground ; The precinct sought o'er sea and shore,- The grave of him, whose sufferings o'er Had now their glorious triumph found ! XIV. There the Scriptorium spread it's gloom, To dead and living, like one tomb ; The living there like dead might show, So mutely sat they, ranged in row ; Scarce seen to move, from hour to hour, Copying the written folio rare, Or tracing bird, or curious flower, Round blessed Mary in her bower, In splendid gold and colours fair, On missal leaf, with painful care, Or portraiture of Donor good, That, closely kept and seldom viewed, Still fresh and glorious should be For century following century. xv.

Others there were, who volumes bound In silk, or velvet, 'broidered round And 'bossed with gold and gems of price, Enclasped with emerald palm-leaf thrice. On the high window near would shine, Transparent, the memorial line Of him, who once had wrought below, With patient hand and earnest brow ; Him, whose small pencil thus enshrined In book of Golden Record true, The image and the noble mind, And thanks to benefactor due. There shadowed Kings and Abbots pass, In crowned pomp, or sweeping palle, Like spectres o'er some wizard's glass. There, as the lifted pages fall, They rise to view and disappear, As year steals silent after year, Till came the blank leaf, turned o'er all ! Even o'er him, while here he wrought On the dull page the living thought. In after-time were here impressed Those wondrous characters combined, That stamp upon the paper vest At once, the image of the mind.

The second Abbey this in all the land, That stretched to learning a preserving hand, f Here cloister-walks, in spacious square, Showed sacred story, painted fair, And portraiture of famous men, Who seemed to live and speak again, In golden maxims from the walls. Nobly these doisters ranged along By chapels, chambers, courts and hdls, Dividing from the cowled throng, As with a dim and pillared aisle, The Royal lodging's stately pile. There the Queen's parlour, and her bower, Hung o'er the sunny southern glade ; And here the place of monarch-power Gleamed through the Abbey's farther shade- The foliaged arch, the well-carved door Of chamber, hung from vault to floor With storied scene, or cloth of gold, Or 'broidered velvet's purple fold, Rose beauteous to the taste of yore. And slender shafts, entwined with flowers, Lifted their high o'er-arching bowers, Traced forth with mimic skill so true, Kings seemed their Windsor's groves to view.

The high-carved chimney's canopy Spread broad o'er half a blazing tree, With pinnade and mitre wrought And shielded arms of Mercia's court, Three royal crowns ; and blazonry Of many an abbot lying near In choir, or cloister, on his bier. High in the midst a marble form Stood in it's tabernacle shade, Pale as the gleam of April storm ; Oft was the passing monk afraid ; So sternly watched the downcast eye ! Yet hardly might such monk know why. On the brow a kingly crown it wore. In it's hand a Mercian sceptre bore ; 'Twas Offa stood there on his fretted throne, Whom these holy walls for their founder own, Who Charlemagne for foe and friend had known. And in that chamber, not in vain, With mullions light and roial pane, Rose th' oriel window's triple arch, That pictured forth the solemn march Of Offa, with his pilgrim train.

Within these walls there was one scene, Where worldly matters were discussed ; It was the Prior's cloister-green ; There ruled he, by the Abbot's trust. For not amid the noise of men, Disturbed by their familiar ken, Dwelt the Lord Abbot ; his recess Was little easy of access ; No ; by the southern transept rose (The shelves with store of learning fraught) His Lodge and Cloister of repose, His bower, where all apart he sought, From convent-state and homage free, Leisure and learned dignity. xrx. Lost now that Study's farther shade, Whose peace no stray step might invade. Nor any sound of breathing life, Save when the Choir, in faint, sweet strife Of voice and citole offering Praise, such as Angel-bands might sing, In lessening chorus, on their way. Ascending to Eternal Day, Were heard with joyful murmuring, Their pure, harmonious strains to bring.

It's deep, perspective shade is gone, That led, where the rich oriel shone, Where golden gloom the stained glass shed O'er the lone Abbot's bended head, As, sitting in his ebon chair, Lulled by sweet harmonies afar, He mused on death and life to come, The dawn of peace beyond the tomb, Or called back years, that o'er his head had rolled, And knew himself for one, whose tale is told ! So still his form, so fixed his look, As dwelt his pale eyes o'er his book, So true, so clearly might you trace The lines of thought upon his face, He seemed some shade, that loves to dwell Where late it's mortal substance fell — To linger in the living scene, , Where erst it's cares, it's joys had been ; The while each shuddering sigh of air, That breathed upon the ivy near, Passed o'er the Vision's patient head, Like whisper of the spirit fled. xx.

Far distant rose those walls upon the light, The stately walls, with tapestry richly dight, Of th' Abbot's Banquet-hall, where, as on throne He sat at the high dais, like prince, alone, Save when a Royal guest came here, Or Papal Legate claimed a chair. Here marble platforms, flight o'er flight, Slow rising through the long-lined view, Showed tables, spread at different height, Where each for different rank he knew. And, with pleased glance, adown the hall, Saw Bishops in their far-sought palle, The Abbey's noble Seneschal, Barons and Earls, in gold array, And warrior Knights, in harneys grey- There was the Prior's delegated sway. The grave Archdeacon sat below, And th' hundred Monks, in row and row ; Not robed in dismal sable they ILL THE ABBEY. Upon a high and festal day, But all in copes most costly and most gay.

There, too, the Abbey-Marshal shone, And there, beside the Abbot's throne, Chaplain of Honour from the Pope, alone xxi. Thus the Lord-Abbot, were he proud, Might muse upon the chequered crowd ; Nor always did his mind disdain The worldly honours, though so vain. His hoard with massive plate was laid, And rare inventions it displayed ; Each sewer-monk his homage paid With bended knee and bowed head, And Latin verse, half sung, half said On every platform, as he rose Through the long hall to it's high close. Where frankincense from golden urns In light wreath round the Abbot burns. The chaunted Latin grace was sung With pomp of instruments, that rung The arched roofs and screens among. And, when a Royal guest was there, The Abbot, rising from his chair, Blessed, with spread hands, the ordered feast, While reverend stood each princely guest, And far adown the hall might see Knights, Bishops, Earls, on bended knee.

XXII. And when came up, at old Yule-tide, The boar's head, trimmed with garlands gay. With shining holly's scarlet pride, And the sweet-scented rosemary, O ! then what merry carols rung, What choral lays the minstrels sung ! Marching before it through the hall, Led by the stately Senesc'ial. This was the joyous minstrel's call, In Leonine with English strung : " Caput Apri defero. * * * * " The boar's head in hand bring I " With garlands gay and rosemary : " I pray you, all sing merrily, " Qui estis in coiniviu." xxm. Then, every voice in chorus joined Of those who sat in festal row. You might have heard it on the wind — Heard it o'er hills of desert snow. Thence might be seen, in vale below, Through windows of that Banquet-hall, The mighty Yule-Clough blazing clear, And the Yule-Tapers, huge and tall, Lighting the roofs with timely cheer.

But, ere a few brief hours were sped, The blaze was gone — the guests were fled. And heavy was the Winter's sigh, As those lone walls it passed by. xxiv. Now, ere the Abbot's feast began, Or yet appeared the crane and swan, The solemn Carver, with his keen Knife, and well armed with napkins clean, Scarf-wise athwart his shoulder placed, And on each arm and round his waist, - Came, led by Marshal, to the dais. There every trencher he assays, O'er the Great Salt makes flourishes, Touches each spoon and napkin fair, Assaying whether ill lurk there, Ere he present it to his lord, Or offer it at the Rewards. The Sewer, half-kneeling on his way, Of every dish receives assaye At the high board, as guard from guile, The Marshd waiting by the while, And ancient carols rising slow From the young Choir and Monks below.

And thus, as every course came on, These pomps an awful reverence won. XXV. Soon as the last high course was o'er, The Chaplain from the cupboard bore, With viands from the tables stored, The Alms-Dish to the Abbot's board, And ample loaf, and gave it thence, With due form and good countenance, That th' Almoner might it dispense. Next came the Cup-bearers, with wine, Malmsey and golden metheglin, With spice-cake and with wafers fine. This o'er, when surnaps all were drawn, And solemn grace again was sung, Came golden ewer and bason, borne In state to the high board along. xxvi. But, at high tide, ere all was past, Marched the huge Wassail-bowl the last, Obedient to the Abbot's call, Borne by the Steward of the hall ; The Marshal with his wand before And streamers gay and rosemary, And ehoral carols sounding o'er. 'Twas set beside the father's dais, Where oft the Deacon, in his place, Who bearer of the grace-cup was, Filled high the cordial Hippocras From out that bowl of spicery, And served the Abbot on his knee ; Then, sent around to every board This farewell-wassail from his lord.

The Abbot, tasting of the wine, Rose from his chair, in wonted sign The feast was o'er ; yet stood awhile In cheerful converse with high guest, Who from the tables round him pressed Then, with a kind and gracious smile, The wassail and the board he blessed Ere yet he left the gorgeous scene, And sought the tranquil shade within. XXVII. Here, with proud grace, did Wolsey stand, Signing forth blessings with his hand, And oft the grace-cup had allowed To move among the willing crowd. Grandeur sat on his steadfast brow. 'Mid high Imagination's glow ; He seemed to feel himself the lord Of all who sat beside his board, And, whether Peer, or Prince, or King, 'Twas meet to him they homage bring ; And homage willed they, since his pride Had genius, judgement, taste, for guide. Which held it in such fine control, Pride seemed sublimity of soul. xxvm.

Short while the Abbot did repose, When he had left the Banquet-hall ; For soon, where his arched chamber rose, Would other pageant-scenes disclose On days of convent festival. Here, on the Martyr's annual feast When Obits at his shrine had ceased ; When Give-Ale and the Dole were o'er ; When Robin Hood had left his bower, And in the Convent's spacious court The morrice-dancers ceased their sport, And on the rout was closed the Abbey-door ; Then torch and taper, blazing clear Within the Abbot's evening room, Banished the heavy, wintry gloom ; And Mysteries were acted here. Then, Chronicle of Kings, pourtrayed From England's story, long gone by, In mimic garb and scene arrayed Awoke the brethren's solemn sigh ; Such as we breathe o'er these, our theme, Whelmed in the ever-passing stream. XXIX.

Here, too, the Minstrels' chaunted song Told of their sainted Alban's fate ; But, oft the measure wound along With tales of Chivalry's high state, Of knights, of ladies and of love, Ambition's eagle, Beauty's dove, And many a lay of Holy Land, Of Richard's and of Edward's band. The harpers, in the noble train Of Abbey guest, oft joined the strain ; And, as they woke with fire the lay, Or bade it's moving grief decay, Each silent monk, with look attent, His head, unhooded, thoughtful, bent. Then might you watch, in the stern eye The busy, fretful passions die, Such as in gloom and loneness dwell, Gnawing the bosom's vital cell, And spreading poison through the snul, That yields to their malign control. XXX 'Twas sweet the softened mind to trace Beaming upon time-hardened face, Won by still harmony to rest ; And all unconscious of the tear, That, stranger to such brow severe, Upon the closing eyelid pressed.

But sweeter 'twas to mark the smile Of the blind Minstrel o'er the strings ; Darkness, nor want, he knows the while, As wide the storied verse he flings ; For Music can all wants beguile, With bright perception chase his night, And can awake that glow of heart, Affection's dearest smiles impart ; For Music is — the blind man's light ! The beam, that does to mental ray Image and sentiment display, The world of passion, living thought, All that the mind through sight ere sought, Then sigh not, that he dwells in night, For he hath Music for his light ! XXXI. This vaulted chamber once was lined With arras rich, where stood combined The story of Cologne's Three Kings, With other far-famed ancient things. Yet oft, on solemn festival, A deeper tale spoke from the wall, Such as might aid the mimic show Enacted on the scene below ; Where the raised platform, near the Bay Served well for stage.

That oriel gay Rose with light leaves and columns tall, Mid roial glass and fretwork small ; While tripod lamps from the coved roof Showed well each painted mask aloof, Lanfranc and Saxon Edward there, Watching the scene they once could share XXXII. That oriel shed bright influence And charm, by its magnificence, On all there told by eye, or tongue, Morality, or Mystery, Or Founder's boon, or History. In front, the velvet curtain, flung In folds aside, not then for shade, Or shelter, as when winds invade, Made graceful ornament between The roof and the fictitious scene. How different from this festal grace, How fit it's blandishments to chase, Were the long vistas, ranging here Of the Great Cloister's pillared square. And when could festal joy e'er vie With the talm rapture of the sigh Breathed in that Cloister's solemn shade, When the lone monk would muse and read, And meditate on ancient lore, Or view the warrior on his tomb, With raised hands seeming to implore Of Heaven a mitigated doom ?

So shaded would such figure lie, Tall arches pointing o'er the head, That, though a window, placed on high, It's gleam through distant colours shed, — So dim would He in shades below, That, whether living shape, or dead, The monk, who gazed, might hardly know. And often, at the midnight-watch, (The shrine-watch in the aisle beside) His ear attent low sound would catch, That stole along the tomb and died, As though he had some holy word In whisper from the marble heard ! 6 VOL. Followed a stillness all profound ; Was it some spirit from the ground That breathed a spell of death around ? If the monk watched some little space, Life would seem trembling o'er the face ! The pallid stone would change it's hue, And tremble to his doubting view ! XXXIV. Gone is that Cloister's shadowy walk, Where the more aged would pace and talk, Or, resting in the well-carved nook, Leisurely read the rare lent book, Turning each page with reverend care.

Th' illuminator's work to spare ; Or tell some legend of a saint, Or dlegcry, little worth, Of monkish virtues pictured forth In leonine, of Latin quaint. Whate'er it were, 'twas fine repose, In cloister-shade, at evening close, To lean along that oaken seat, And, all enwrapt in quiet gloom, Hear the still Vesper, rising sweet From sainted Oswyn's shrine and tomb, Or Obit from the chantry near Of the good Abbot Delamere, Swell faint and die upon the ear. And solemn 'twas and sweet, the while, To mark upon some distant aisle, Seen through deep arch of transept-door, The streaming torch-light break the shade, Strike the tall arches over head, Or, slanting low that long aisle o'er, Show, some dim sepulchre before, The lonely, duteous mourner there, Kneeling and veiled in watch of prayer. XXXV.

There, ranged around in silent guard, Seventeen kings yet watch and ward The good Duke Humphrey's mouldering form, Here rescued from the earthly storm, Raised by a rival — now a worm ! And, when the midnight chaunts were still, Strange sounds the vault below would fill. o A ghastly shade, with mitred head, Has stalked, that lonely tomb around, And knelt upon the honoured ground, With hands upon its white palle spread, In seeming prayer and penance lost ; 'Twas guessed this was a murderer's ghost, Condemned to wander round the grave Of him, whom kindness could not save. There were, who in that shade could see (Or 'twas the moonbeam's mockery) Beaufort of cruel memory ! Such look as dying he had shown, When hope of Heaven he did not own, And Horror stared beside his bed ; Such grisly look this visage had.

XXVI. And, at such hour, was sometimes seen, Veiled in thin shadowy weeds of woe, The image of a stately Queen, Near the cold marble pacing slow. The crown upon her hair gleamed faint, And more of heroine than saint Was drawn upon her lofty brow. The proud, heroic graces there, The grandeur of her step and air, No softer charms of pity share. Alas ! that such commanding mind Were not with truth and mercy joined ! Now, were her look, her eye of fire, That once could warlike bands inspire, Dimmed with the tear of vain remorse : Far less had been a kingdom's loss, Than loss of holy innocence ; So said her fixed and anguished countenance. XXXVII. But Margaret's moan, nor Beaufort's word, Was heard at Vesper's hallowed hour To musing monk, in cloister-bower ; Pious sounds alone he heard, And listened oft, with saintly smile, When Autumn's gale swept o'er the aisle, And bore the swelling hymn away Up to the realms of heavenly day !

But, when the fitful gust was gone, Rose that strain with a sweeter tone ; The hymn of Peace it seemed to be — Her hushed and meekest minstrelsy — Her welcome to the Just, when free From this short world of misery. The monk, who listened, many a still tear shed, By trembling Hope and blessed Pity fed ; The listener's self how soon among the dead ! xxxvm. But who the changing scenes may tell This Abbey's ancient walls have known ! VVhen London tolled the Plague's death-bell, Justice here held her courts alone ; Here, in this nave, was placed her throne. An earlier age showed scenes more dread, For shrines and tombs around were spread With bleeding knights and nobles dead. Next age, the latter Henry's bands Each consecrated altar spoiled, Seized on the Abbey's ample lands, And recklessly for plunder toiled.