The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
 |
|
 |
|
|
|
|
 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
'Tis pleasant yet to see how ivy clings
Around the walls where night birds clap their wings;
A solemn awe pervades the feeling breast,
To view the sacred earth with ruins pressed—
The fallen arch, the shatter'd tower on high,
Remind us of the days and years gone by;
Imagination sees the whole entire—
The smoke yet curling in the ancient choir,
And slowly as the clouds of incense roll,
The fragrant grateful scent perfumes the whole,
While the great organ, solemn, deep, and strong,
Joins with the worshippers in sacred song;—
Beholds the Abbot in his robes arrayed,
The altar wet, where once Turgesius prayed,
The tapers burning, till each holy shrine
More brilliant than the thrones of monarchs shine.
The glitt'ring cross, the Virgin's image there,
Before the imagination all appear;
The veiled nuns, on some grand solemn night,
Ranged on each side, in vests of purest white.
Though centuries intervene, yet fancy hears
The Abbot reading o'er the Latin prayers;
How still—how awful! as the solemn strain
Now swells, and now to whispers falls again!
Till the Te Deum, bursting from the crowd,
Sounds like the seas, when winds and waves are loud,
In all the diapasons deep or clear,
Man could invent, or his weak passions bear!
The spot where once the gorgeous shrine was seen,
Is cover'd with a mossy robe of green;
Elms in the cloisters grow, and like a pall,
Hide the fine mouldings of the southern wall;
Upon the place where many a knight lies low,
Weeds, nettles, and the baneful nightshade grow,
While on the cornice wildly waves the fern,
Like verdant plumes, in many a graceful turn.
Around the walls where night birds clap their wings;
A solemn awe pervades the feeling breast,
To view the sacred earth with ruins pressed—
The fallen arch, the shatter'd tower on high,
Remind us of the days and years gone by;
22
The smoke yet curling in the ancient choir,
And slowly as the clouds of incense roll,
The fragrant grateful scent perfumes the whole,
While the great organ, solemn, deep, and strong,
Joins with the worshippers in sacred song;—
Beholds the Abbot in his robes arrayed,
The altar wet, where once Turgesius prayed,
The tapers burning, till each holy shrine
More brilliant than the thrones of monarchs shine.
The glitt'ring cross, the Virgin's image there,
Before the imagination all appear;
The veiled nuns, on some grand solemn night,
Ranged on each side, in vests of purest white.
Though centuries intervene, yet fancy hears
The Abbot reading o'er the Latin prayers;
How still—how awful! as the solemn strain
Now swells, and now to whispers falls again!
Till the Te Deum, bursting from the crowd,
Sounds like the seas, when winds and waves are loud,
In all the diapasons deep or clear,
Man could invent, or his weak passions bear!
The spot where once the gorgeous shrine was seen,
Is cover'd with a mossy robe of green;
Elms in the cloisters grow, and like a pall,
Hide the fine mouldings of the southern wall;
Upon the place where many a knight lies low,
Weeds, nettles, and the baneful nightshade grow,
23
Like verdant plumes, in many a graceful turn.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |