University of Virginia Library

CANTO I. THE ABBEY.

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?

II.

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.

III.

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;
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;
Yet 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,
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.

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 victorious crowd.

VIII.

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 from 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 forbear—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,
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 Beechwood'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,
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.

XVI.

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 cloisters ranged along
By chapels, chambers, courts and halls,
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.

XVII.

The high-carved chimney's canopy
Spread broad o'er half a blazing tree,
With pinnacle 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.

XVIII.

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.

XIX.

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
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 board 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 Seneschal.
This was the joyous minstrel's call,
In Leonine with English strung:

XXIII.

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 Rewarde.
The Sewer, half-kneeling on his way,
Of every dish receives assaye
At the high board, as guard from guile,
The Marshal 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 choral 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.

XXVIII.

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 soul,
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.

XXXIII.

And when could festal joy e'er vie
With the calm 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 lie 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!
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 allegory, 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.
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!

XXXVIII.

But who the changing scenes may tell
This Abbey's ancient walls have known!
When 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.
Then, nearer to the living day,
Here other spoilers bore the sway,
Who, feigning Reason for their guide,
Indulged an impious, bigot pride.
All arrogant in their chicane,
They dared these reverend walls profane.
Then Cromwell's bands on grave-stones lay,
And storied brasses tore away;
The sculptured marble tombs defaced
Of those, who, nameless, sleep below;
That the tall arch, with web-work traced
That shadowed form of Prophet graced,
Was shattered by their impious blow.

XXXIX.

Of all this Abbey's ample bound
One outer arch alone is found,
To mark the Convent's stately port,
The entrance of the western court,
Beneath whose arch have passed the trains
Of Kings succeeding Kings, when strains
From trump and clarion, as from fort,
Have shook the massy walls around,
And startled with the warrior-sound
The penanced monk, in distant cell,
(He had his long beads twice to tell,
Nor knew what form he muttered then,)—
While forth, to meet their Sovereign,
The Abbot and his convent paced,
With time-worn banners, ranged in haste.

XL.

Then from the convent-hall within
Faint might be heard the joyous din
Of minstrel-harp and choral voice,
That for the royal-guest rejoice;
And then the painted window bright,
Lighting, on high, the murky night,
And showing portraiture of Saint,
Kind signal to the Pilgrim faint;
But to the robber, in his cell
Of giant-oak, it told too well,
That richly-dight and jewelled guest
Would late return to distant rest.
The darkened vale and subject-town
Viewed such bright vision with a frown,
And murmured, that the tyrant knell
Of iron Curfew should compel
Their homes to sink in sudden night,
When e'en the turret, whence it spoke,
Insulting those who owned the yoke,
Lifted it's brow, all ruddy bright,
Flushed from the Abbey-Hall's strong light.

XLI.

But, though these lighted halls are gone,
And darkly stands that tower and lone,
The sacred temple still endures;
A truer worship it secures.
And, though the gorgeous shrines are o'er,
And their pale watch-monks now no more;
Though torch, nor voice, from chantry-tomb,
Break, solemn, through the distant gloom;
Though pilgrim-trains no more ascend
Where far-seen arches dimly bend,
And fix in awe th' admiring eye
Upon the Martyr's crown, on high,
And watch upon his funeral-bed;
Nor hundred Monks, by Abbot led,
Through aisle and choir, by tomb and shrine,
Display the long-devolving line,
To notes of solemn minstrelsy,
And hymns, that o'er the vaulting die
Yet, we here feel the inward peace,
That in long-reverenced places dwells;
Our earthly cares here learn to cease;
The Future all the Past expels.
And still, so solemn falls the shade,
Where once the weeping Palmer prayed,
We feel, as o'er the graves we tread,
His thrill of reverential dread.

XLII.

Thou silent Choir, whose only sound
Is whispering step o'er graves around,
Or echo faint from vault, on high,
Of the poor redbreast's minstrelsy,
Who, perched on some carved mask of stone,
By lofty gallery dim and lone,
Sends sweet, short note, but sparely heard,
That sounds e'en like the farewell word
Of some dear friend, whose smile in vain
We seek through tears to view again!
Thou holy shade—unearthly gloom!
That hoverest o'er the Martyr's tomb;
Ye awful vaults, whose aspect wears
The ghastliness of parted years!
The very look, the steadfast frown,
That ye on ages past sent down,
Strange, solemn, wonderful and dread,
Pageant of living and of dead;—
Thou silent Choir! thou holy shade!
Ye walls, that guard the Martyr's head,
Meet agents are ye to inspire
The lone enthusiast's thought of fire;
High ministers of Alban's fame,
Ye are his tomb, and breathe his name.

XLIII.

And when, enthroned on field of war,
This Abbey's walls are seen afar,
When it's old dark-drawn aisles extend
Upon the light; and, bold and broad,
The central tower is seen t' ascend,
And sternly look their sovereign lord,
We feel again such transports rise,
As fixed that way-worn Palmer's eyes,
When, gaining first the toilsome brow,
Rose to his sight the Shrine below,
When, as he caught it's aspect pale,
He shouted “Alban! Martyr! hail!”
And knelt and wept, and kissed the long-sought ground.