University of Virginia Library

The Ruin'd ABBY;

OR, The Effects of SUPERSTITION.

At length fair peace with olive crown'd regains
Her lawful throne, and to the sacred haunts
Of wood or fount the frighted muse returns.
Happy the bard, who, from his native hills,
Soft musing on a summer's eve, surveys

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His azure stream, with pensile woods enclos'd!
Or o'er the glassy surface, with his friend,
Or faithful fair, thro' bord'ring willows green
Wafts his small frigate. Fearless he of shouts,
Or taunts, the rhetoric of the wat'ry crew
That ape confusion from the realms they rule!
Fearless of these; who shares the gentler voice
Of peace and music; birds of sweetest song
Attune from native boughs their various lay,
And chear the forest; birds of brighter plume
With busy pinion skim the glitt'ring wave,
And tempt the sun; ambitious to display
Their several merit, while the vocal flute,
Or number'd verse, by female voice endear'd,
Crowns his delight, and mollifies the scene.
If solitude his wand'ring steps invite
To some more deep recess, (for hours there are,
When gay, when social minds to friendship's voice,
Or beauty's charm, her wild abodes prefer)
How pleas'd he treads her venerable shades,
Her solemn courts! the center of the grove!
The root-built cave, by far extended rocks
Around embosom'd, how it soothes the soul!
If scoop'd at first by superstitious hands
The rugged cell receiv'd alone the shoals
Of bigot minds, religion dwells not here,
Yet virtue pleas'd, at intervals, retires:
Yet here may wisdom, as she walks the maze,
Some serious truths collect, the rules of life,
And serious truths of mightier weight than gold!

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I ask not wealth; but let me hoard with care,
With frugal cunning, with a niggard's art,
A few fix'd principles; in early life,
Ere indolence impede the search, explor'd.
Then like old Latimer, when age impairs
My judgment's eye, when quibbling schools attack
My grounded hope, or subtler wits deride,
Will I not blush to shun the vain debate,
And this mine answer; “Thus, 'twas thus I thought.
“My mind yet vigorous, and my soul entire;
“Thus will I think, averse to listen more
“To intricate discussion, prone to stray.
“Perhaps my reason may but ill defend
“My settled faith; my mind, with age impair'd,
“Too sure its own infirmities declare.
“But I am arm'd by caution, studious youth,
“And early foresight; now the winds may rise,
“The tempest whistle, and the billows roar;
“My pinnace rides in port, despoil'd and worn,
“Shatter'd by time and storms, but while it shuns
“Th'inequal conflict, and declines the deep,
“Sees the strong vessel fluctuate less secure.”
Thus while he strays, a thousand rural scenes
Suggest instruction, and instructing please.
And see betwixt the grove's extended arms
An abby's rude remains attract thy view,
Gilt by the mid-day fun: with ling'ring step
Produce thine axe, (for, aiming to destroy
Tree, branch, or shade, for never shall thy breast
Too long deliberate) with timorous hand

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Remove th'obstructive bough; nor yet refuse,
Tho' sighing, to destroy that fav'rite pine,
Rais'd by thine hand, in its luxuriant prime
Of beauty fair, that screens the vast remains.
Aggriev'd but constant as the Roman sire,
The rigid Manlius, when his conqu'ring son
Bled by a parent's voice; the cruel meed
Of virtuous ardor, timelessly display'd;
Nor cease 'till, thro' the gloomy road, the pile
Gleam unobstructed; thither oft thine eye
Shall sweetly wander; thence returning, soothe
With pensive scenes thy philosophic mind.
These were thy haunts, thy opulent abodes,
O superstition! hence the dire disease,
(Ballanc'd with which the fam'd Athenian pest
Were a short head-ach, were the trivial pain
Of transient indigestion) seiz'd mankind.
Long time she rag'd, and scarce a southern gale
Warm'd our chill air, unloaded with the threats
Of tyrant Rome; but futile all, 'till she,
Rome's abler legate, magnify'd their pow'r,
And in a thousand horrid forms attir'd.
Where then was truth, to sanctify the page
Of British annals? if a foe expir'd,
The perjur'd monk suborn'd infernal shrieks,
And fiends to snatch at the departing soul
With hellish emulation. If a friend,
High o'er his roof exultant angels tune
Their golden lyres, and waft him to the skies.
What then were vows, were oaths, were plighted faith?

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The sovereign's just, the subject's loyal pact
To cherish mutual good, annull'd and vain,
By Roman magic, grew an idle scroll
Ere the frail sanction of the wax was cold.
With thee, Plantagenet, from civil broils
The land awhile respir'd, and all was peace.
Then Becket rose, and impotent of mind,
From regal courts with lawless fury march'd
The church's blood-stain'd convicts, and forgave;
Bid murd'rous priests the sov'reign frown contemn,
And with unhallowed crosier bruis'd the crown.
Yet yielded not supinely tame a prince
Of Henry's virtues; learn'd, courageous, wise,
Of fair ambition. Long his regal soul
Firm and erect the peevish priest exil'd,
And brav'd the fury of revengeful Rome.
In vain! let one faint malady diffuse
The pensive gloom which superstition loves,
And see him, dwindled to a recreant groom,
Rein the proud palfrey while the priest ascends!
Was Coeur-de-lion blest with whiter days?
Here the cowl'd zealots with united cries
Urged the crusade; and see, of half his stores
Despoil'd the wretch, whose wiser bosom chose
To bless his friends, his race, his native land.
Of ten fair suns that roll'd their annual race,
Not one beheld him on his vacant throne:
While haughty Longchamp, 'mid his liv'ry'd files
Of wanton vassals, spoil'd his faithful realm,

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Battling in foreign fields; collecting wide
A laurel harvest for a pillag'd land.
Oh dear-bought trophies! when a prince deserts
His drooping realm, to pluck the barren sprays!
When faithless John usurp'd the sully'd crown,
What ample tyranny! the groaning land
Deem'd earth, deem'd heav'n its foe! six tedious years
Our helpless fathers in despair obey'd
The papal interdict; and who obey'd,
The sovereign plunder'd. O inglorious days!
When the French tyrant by the futile grant
Of papal rescript, claim'd Britannia's throne,
And durst invade; be such inglorious days
Or hence forgot, or not recall'd in vain!
Scarce had the tortur'd ear dejected heard
Rome's loud anathema, but heartless, dead
To ev'ry purpose, men nor wish'd to live,
Nor dar'd to die. The poor laborious hind
Heard the dire curse, and from his trembling hand
Fell the neglected crook that rul'd the plain.
Thence journeying home, in ev'ry cloud he sees
A vengeful angel, in whose waving scroll
He reads damnation; sees its sable train
Of grim attendants, pencil'd by despair!
The weary pilgrim from remoter climes
By painful steps arriv'd; his home, his friends,
His offspring left, to lavish on the shrine
Of some far-honour'd saint his costly stores,
Inverts his footstep; sickens at the sight
Of the barr'd fane, and silent sheds his tear.

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The wretch whose hope by stern oppression chas'd
From ev'ry earthly bliss, still as it saw
Triumphant wrong, took wing and flew to heav'n,
And rested there, now mourn'd his refuge lost
And wonted peace. The sacred fane was barr'd,
And the lone altar, where the mourner's throng'd
To supplicate remission, smok'd no more;
While the green weed, luxuriant round uprose.
Some from their death-bed, whose delirious faith
Thro' ev'ry stage of life to Rome's decrees
Obsequious, humbly hop'd to die in peace,
Now saw the ghastly king approach, begirt
In tenfold terrors; now expiring heard
The last loud clarion sound, and heav'ns decree
With unremitting vengeance bar the skies.
Nor light the grief, by superstition weigh'd,
That their dishonour'd corse, shut from the verge
Of hallow'd earth, or tutelary fane,
Must sleep with brutes their vassals; on the field;
Unneath some path, in marle unexorcised!
No solemn bell extort a neighbour's tear!
No tongue of priest pronounce their soul secure!
Nor fondest friend assure their peace obtain'd!
The priest! alas so boundless was the ill!
He, like the flock he pillag'd, pin'd forlorn;
The vivid vermeil fled his fady cheek,
And his big paunch, distended with the spoils
Of half his flock: emaciate, groan'd beneath
Superior pride, and mightier lust of pow'r!
'Twas now Rome's fondest friend, whose meagre hand

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Told to the midnight lamp his holy beads
With nice precision, felt the deeper wound
As his gull'd soul rever'd the conclave more.
Whom did the ruin spare? for wealth, for pow'r,
Birth, honour, virtue, enemy and friend,
Sunk helpless in the dreary gulph involv'd;
And one capricious curse envelop'd all!
Were kings secure? in tow'ring stations born,
In flatt'ry nurs'd, inur'd to scorn mankind,
Or view diminish'd from their site sublime;
As when a shepherd, from the lofty brow
Of some proud cliff, surveys his less'ning flock
In snowy groups diffusive, scud the vale.
Awhile the furious menace John return'd,
And breath'd defiance loud. Alas! too soon
Allegiance sick'ning saw its sov'reign yield,
An angry prey to scruples not his own.
The loyal soldier, girt around with strength,
Who stole from mirth and wine his blooming years,
And seiz'd the fauchion, resolute to guard
His sovereign's right, impalsy'd at the news,
Finds the firm bias of his soul revers'd
For foul desertion; drops the lifted steel,
And quits fame's noble harvest, to expire
The death of monks, of surfeit and of sloth!
At length fatigu'd with wrongs the servile king
Drain'd from his land its small remaining stores
To buy remission. But could these obtain?
No! resolute in wrongs the priest obdur'd;
'Till crawling base to Rome's deputed slave

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His fame, his people, and his crown he gave.
Mean monarch! slighted, brav'd, abhor'd before!
And now, appeas'd by delegated sway,
The wily pontiff scorns not to recall
His interdictions. Now the sacred doors
Admit repentant multitudes, prepar'd
To buy deceit; admit obsequious tribes
Of satraps! princes! crawling to the shrine
Of sainted villainy! the pompous tomb
Dazling with gems and gold, or in a cloud
Of incense wreath'd, amidst a drooping land
That sigh'd for bread! 'Tis thus the Indian clove
Displays its verdant leaf, its crimson flow'r,
And sheds its odours; while the flocks around
Hungry and faint the barren sands explore
In vain! nor plant nor herb endears the soil;
Drain'd and exhaust to swell its thirsty pores,
And furnish luxury—Yet, yet in vain
Britannia strove; and whether artful Rome
Caress'd or curs'd her, superstition rag'd
And blinded, fetter'd, and despoil'd the land.
At length some murd'rous monk, with pois'nous art
Expell'd the life his brethren robb'd of peace.
Nor yet surceas'd with John's disastrous fate
Pontific fury! English wealth exhaust,
The sequent reign beheld the beggar'd shore
Grim with Italian usurers; prepar'd
To lend, for griping unexampled hire,
To lend—what Rome might pillage uncontroul'd.
For now with more extensive havoc rag'd

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Relentless Greg'ry, with a thousand arts,
And each rapacious, born to drain the world!
Nor shall the muse repeat, how oft he blew
The croise's trumpet; then for sums of gold
Annull'd the vow, and bade the false alarm
Swell the gross hoards of Henry, or his own.
Nor shall she tell, how pontiffs dar'd repeal
The best of charters! dar'd absolve the tye
Of British kings by legal oath restrain'd.
Nor can she dwell on argosies of gold
From Albion's realm to servile shores convey'd,
Wrung from her sons, and speeded by her kings!
Oh irksome days! when wicked thrones combine
With papal craft, to gull their native land!
Such was our fate, while Rome's director taught
Of subjects, born to be their monarch's prey,
To toil for monks, for gluttony to toil,
For vacant gluttony; extortion, fraud,
For av'rice, envy, pride, revenge, and shame!
O doctrine breath'd from Stygian caves! exhal'd
From inmost Erebus!—Such Henry's reign!
Urging his loyal realms reluctant hand
To wield the peaceful sword, by John erewhile
Forc'd from its scabbard; and with burnish'd lance
Essay the savage cure, domestic war!
And now some nobler spirits chas'd the mist
Of general darkness. Grosted now adorn'd
The mitred wreath he wore, with reason's sword

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Stagg'ring delusion's frauds; at length beneath
Rome's interdict expiring calm, resign'd
No vulgar soul that dar'd to heav'n appeal!
But ah this fertile glebe, this fair domain
Had well nigh ceded to the slothful hands
Of monks libidinous; ere Edward's care
The lavish hand of death-bed fear restrain'd.
Yet was he clear of superstition's taint?
He too, misdeemful of his wholesome law,
Ev'n he, expiring, gave his treasur'd gold
To fatten monks on Salem's distant soil!
Yes, the third Edward's breast, to papal sway
So little prone, and fierce in honour's cause,
Cou'd superstition quell! before the tow'rs
Of haggard Paris, at the thunder's voice
He drops the sword, and signs ignoble peace!
But still the night by Romish art diffus'd
Collects her clouds, and with slow pace recedes.
When by soft Bourdeau's braver queen approv'd,
Bold Wickliff rose: and while the bigot pow'r
Amidst her native darkness skulk'd secure,
The demon vanish'd as he spread the day.
So from his bosom Cacus breath'd of old
The pitchy cloud, and in a night of smoke
Secure awhile his recreant life sustain'd;
'Till fam'd Alcides, o'er his subtlest wiles
Victorious, chear'd the ravag'd nations round.
Hail honour'd Wickliff! enterprizing sage!
An Epicurus in the cause of truth!
For 'tis not radiant suns, the jovial hours

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Of youthful spring, an æther all serene,
Nor all the verdure of Campania's vales,
Can chase religious gloom! 'Tis reason, thought,
The light, the radiance that pervades the soul,
And sheds its beams on heav'n's mysterious way!
As yet this light but glimmer'd, and again
Error prevail'd; while kings by force uprais'd
Let loose the rage of bigots on their foes,
And seek affection by the dreadful boon
Of licens'd murder. Ev'n the kindest prince,
The most extended breast, the royal Hal!
All unrelenting heard the Lollards cry
Burst from the center of remorseless flames;
Their shrieks endur'd! Oh stain to martial praise!
When Cobham, gen'rous as the noble peer
That wears his honours, pay'd the fatal price
Of virtue blooming ere the storms were laid!
'Twas thus, alternate, truth's precarious flame
Decay'd or flourish'd. With malignant eye
The pontiff saw Britannia's golden fleece,
Once all his own, invest her worthier sons!
Her verdant valleys, and her fertile plains,
Yellow with grain abjure his hateful sway!
Essay'd his utmost art, and inly own'd
No labours bore proportion to the prize.
So when the tempter view'd, with envious eye,
The first fair pattern of the female frame,
All nature's beauties in one form display'd,
And cent'ring there, in wild amaze he stood;

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Then only envying heav'n's creative hand:
Wish'd to his gloomy reign his envious arts
Might win this prize, and doubled ev'y snare.
And vain were reason, courage, learning, all,
Till pow'r accede: till Tudor's wild caprice
Smile on their cause; Tudor, whose tyrant reign
With mental freedom crown'd, the best of kings
Might envious view, and ill prefer their own!
Then Wolsey rose, by nature form'd to seek
Ambition's trophies, by address to win,
By temper to enjoy—whose humbler birth
Taught the gay scenes of pomp to dazzle more.
Then from its tow'ring height with horrid sound
Rush'd the proud abby. Then the vaulted roofs,
Torn from their walls, disclos'd the wanton scene
Of monkish chastity! Each angry friar
Crawl'd from his bedded strumpet, mutt'ring low
An ineffectual curse. The pervious nooks
That, ages past, convey'd the guileful priest
To play some image on the gaping crowd,
Imbibe the novel day-light; and expose
Obvious, the fraudful engin'ry of Rome.
As tho' this op'ning earth to neither realms
Shou'd flash meridian day, the hooded race
Shudder abash'd to find their cheats display'd:
And conscious of their guilt, and pleas'd to wave
Its fearful meed, resign'd their fair domain.
Nor yet supine, nor void of rage, retir'd
The pest gigantic; whose revengeful stroke

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Ting'd the red annals of Maria's reign.
When from the tenderest breast, each wayward priest
Cou'd banish mercy, and implant a fiend!
When cruelty the fun'ral pyre uprear'd,
And bound religion there, and fir'd the base!
When the same blaze, which on each tortur'd limb
Fed with luxuriant rage, in ev'ry face
Triumphant faith appear'd, and smiling hope.
O blest Eliza! from thy piercing beam
Forth flew this hated fiend, the child of Rome;
Driv'n to the verge of Albion, linger'd there,
Then with her James receding, cast behind
One angry frown, and sought more servile climes.
Henceforth they ply'd the long-continued task
Of righteous havoc, cov'ring distant fields
With the wrought remnants of the shatter'd pile.
While thro' the land the musing pilgrim sees
A tract of brighter green, and in the midst
Appears a mouldering wall, with ivy crown'd;
Or gothic turret, pride of ancient days!
Now but of use to grace a rural scene;
To bound our vistas, and to glad the sons
Of George's reign, reserv'd for fairer times!
 

Henry II.

Richard I.

Bishop of Ely, Lord Chancellor.

Henry III. who cancell'd the Magna Charta.

Bishop of Lincoln, called Malleus Romanorum.