The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
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RUMINATIONS ON
A DECAYED MONASTERY. |
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 | The Harp of Erin |  |
RUMINATIONS ON A DECAYED MONASTERY.
Here, where the pale grass struggles
with each wind,
Pregnant with form the turf unheeded lies;
Here the fat abbot sleeps, in ease reclin'd,
And here the meek monk folds his modest eyes.
The nun, more chaste than bolted snow,
Mingles with the dust below,
Nor capricious turns away.
Lo! to the taper's tremulous ray
White veil'd shades their frames disclose,
Vests of lily, cheeks of rose;
In dim Fancy's vision seen,
Alive, awake, they rush between.
Pregnant with form the turf unheeded lies;
Here the fat abbot sleeps, in ease reclin'd,
And here the meek monk folds his modest eyes.
The nun, more chaste than bolted snow,
Mingles with the dust below,
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Lo! to the taper's tremulous ray
White veil'd shades their frames disclose,
Vests of lily, cheeks of rose;
In dim Fancy's vision seen,
Alive, awake, they rush between.
Ah! who so cruel, in eternal gloom
To close the sweetest workmanship of God;
In cloister'd aisles to waste their heav'nly bloom,
And dull their bright eyes in the drear abode?
Not real penance claim'd them here;
Nor lowliness, with melting tear:
But Superstition, fiend deform,
Sent forth the persecuting storm,
And in a charnel's baleful arms
Enclos'd the virgin's with'ring charms;
Despotic rul'd the fearful band,
Pray'r and despondence in his hand,—
His own right hand, that seem'd to wield
Heav'n's lightning, and Oppression's shield.
To close the sweetest workmanship of God;
In cloister'd aisles to waste their heav'nly bloom,
And dull their bright eyes in the drear abode?
Not real penance claim'd them here;
Nor lowliness, with melting tear:
But Superstition, fiend deform,
Sent forth the persecuting storm,
And in a charnel's baleful arms
Enclos'd the virgin's with'ring charms;
Despotic rul'd the fearful band,
Pray'r and despondence in his hand,—
His own right hand, that seem'd to wield
Heav'n's lightning, and Oppression's shield.
Poor tremblers! all your griefs are o'er:
Beads deep-murmur'd tire no more;
Pageants dress'd in pious guise,
Lank fasts, and pity-pouring eyes,
All, all eclips'd and sunk! Those stones,
'Scutcheon'd with rude gigantic bones,
Shew the tyrant zealot's end,
And where his schemes of power tend.
Beads deep-murmur'd tire no more;
Pageants dress'd in pious guise,
Lank fasts, and pity-pouring eyes,
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'Scutcheon'd with rude gigantic bones,
Shew the tyrant zealot's end,
And where his schemes of power tend.
Near pebbled beds, where riv'lets play,
And linger in the beams of day;
'Mid sods by kneeling martyrs worn,
Embrown'd with many a horrid thorn,
On whose branches off'rings fade,
(Proof of vows devoutly paid;)
Where the owlet shrieking hides,
Cov'ring with leaves his ragged sides;
Wont the solemn bell to flow
In silver notes, prolonging slow
Tides of matchless melody,
Rousing the friar to secret glee;
While the vot'ries creep along,
And, half-unwilling, join the throng,
Their fates depending on his word,
Own'd of their breasts almighty lord:—
Yes, let them slumber here at last,
Their tyrannies, their suff'rings past;
And lend a venerable dread
To the lone abbey's rocking head.
And linger in the beams of day;
'Mid sods by kneeling martyrs worn,
Embrown'd with many a horrid thorn,
On whose branches off'rings fade,
(Proof of vows devoutly paid;)
Where the owlet shrieking hides,
Cov'ring with leaves his ragged sides;
Wont the solemn bell to flow
In silver notes, prolonging slow
Tides of matchless melody,
Rousing the friar to secret glee;
While the vot'ries creep along,
And, half-unwilling, join the throng,
Their fates depending on his word,
Own'd of their breasts almighty lord:—
Yes, let them slumber here at last,
Their tyrannies, their suff'rings past;
And lend a venerable dread
To the lone abbey's rocking head.
| The Harp of Erin | |