Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Tread lightly here! this spot is holy ground,
And every footfall wakes the voice of ages:
These are the mighty dead that hem thee round,
Names that still shed a halo o'er our pages:
Listen! 'tis fame's loud voice that still proclaims,
“Here sleep the great!”—Oh no!—Time hath scarce left their names.

II

Thou mayest bend o'er each marble semblance now;
This was a monarch—see how mute he lies!
There was a day when on that crumbling brow,

The golden crown flashed awe on vulgar eyes;
That broken hand did then a sceptre sway,
And at his frown men shook—the worms now round him play!

III

Turn to the time, when he thus low was laid,
Within his “narrow cell,” in proud array;
Dirges were sung, and solemn masses said,
And gloomy plumes drooped o'er him as he lay,
Princes and peers were congregated there,
To make Death grand—for what?—'tis only dust lies here!

IV

Quenched are the torches that did o'er him wave,
His grandeur's faded in that vaulted gloom,
Hushed are the voices that sang o'er his grave,
Gone all the monks who prayed around his tomb:
All! all are gone!—there is no living thing
To tell that 'neath this stone, there sleeps a mighty king.

V

Here rests another, clothed in icy mail,
Who in the front of battle loved to be:
There his proud banner shook out to the gale
Its swelling pomp of empty heraldry;
Where are his bowmen now, his shield, and spear,
His steed, and battle-axe, and all he once held dear?

VI

His banner crumbled in the castle hall,
His lofty turrets sunk by slow decay,
His bowmen in the battle-field did fall,
His steed and armour, Time hath swept away,
His plumes are scattered and his helmet cleft,
And this old mouldering tomb, is all that Time hath left.

VII

And this is fame!—for this he fought and bled;
See his reward!—No matter, let him rest;
Vacant and dark is now his ancient bed,

The dust of ages dims his marble breast,
And in that tomb, dust only doth remain;
The wreath which all at last,—beggar and king, obtain.

VIII

See! at his head, a rude-carved lion stands,
In that dark niche where sunbeams never beat;
And while he folds his supplicating hands,
A watchful dragon couches at his feet:
How strangely blended!—he all humble lies,
While they defiance cast, from their huge stony eyes.

IX

And kings and queens here slumber, side by side,
Their quarrels ever hushed in Death's embrace:
How mute they lie!—how humbled all their pride!
Yet still a holy awe pervades each face:
Well! well!—the crowns they bear from cares are free,
As those which children wear, who play at royalty.

X

An awful silence here doth ever linger,
Her dwelling is this many pillared dome;
On her wan lip she plants her stony finger,
And with hushed breath still points to this her home,
Hearkening for ever with half-bended head,
To catch the whispers of the mute and mighty dead.

XI

And here Time stretches out his cloudy wings,
But never beats them, for they have turned grey,
Through hovering o'er the marble forms of kings,
For Time looks older here—and ne'er decay;
'Till with long watching, he will be no more
Than the mere years of sand, that gird the eternal shore.

XII

Gaze on those gothic arches, worn and old!
Call up the past!—behold it doth appear:
What is it but “barbaric pearl and gold?”

No living thing now left a shred to wear;
E'en fancy fails in calling up one face,
So thick Death's shadows lie around this burying-place.

XIII

What gaudy figures rest against the sky!
What golden glories float around each brow!
It seems as if the windows' deepened dye
Had outlived all the splendour stretched below,
As if each shrine, and form, and sculptured mass,
Drew all their light, and shape, and fame, from brittle glass.

XIV

Behold those cloudy saints and angel bands,
How rich their robes upon the casement beam!
They carry us away to distant lands,
To far-off spots that haunt us like a dream,—
To childish heavens, such as in youth we drew,
Peopled with saints, and harps, and roofed with gold and blue.

XV

How dull and leaden beats the busy brain,
While brooding o'er and calling up the past!
The very thoughts seemed girded with a chain,
The mind bowed down beneath a scene so vast,
As if we sat beside a shoreless sea,
Whose waves rolled on, and on, to dark eternity.

A good poem on Westminster Abbey has yet to be written. The Author of this fragment felt the subject too weighty for him, and therefore abandoned it, leaving the Poets' Corner, &c. to other Poets.