 | The Harp of Erin |  |
202
THE VISION OF KILLEIGH CHURCH.
As through the churchyard path I
rov'd,
The mould'ring turrets stagg'ring shook;
The stones in ruin'd row remov'd,
Out flew the owl, and lonely rook.
The mould'ring turrets stagg'ring shook;
The stones in ruin'd row remov'd,
Out flew the owl, and lonely rook.
In antique garb of Erin's loom,
Such as on moss-grown tomb is seen,
A rev'rend spirit trod the gloom,
With venerably-pensive mien:
Such as on moss-grown tomb is seen,
A rev'rend spirit trod the gloom,
With venerably-pensive mien:
A broken cross adorn'd his head.
Which shew'd the blossoms of decay;
His sighs a holy stillness shed:
At last I heard him softly say:
Which shew'd the blossoms of decay;
His sighs a holy stillness shed:
At last I heard him softly say:
“Alas! where are my glitt'ring tow'rs,
My seats where mournful sinners pray'd;
Where rosy abbots pass'd their hours,
And comforted the bashful maid?
My seats where mournful sinners pray'd;
Where rosy abbots pass'd their hours,
And comforted the bashful maid?
“No silver bell with heav'nly call,
Sounds sweetly through the rocking spire;
No Peter-pence from rich men fall;
No symptoms of religious fire.
Sounds sweetly through the rocking spire;
No Peter-pence from rich men fall;
No symptoms of religious fire.
203
“The solitary curate too
Pipes his long sermon through the aisles;
Preaches to each deserted pew;
And sees no penitence, but smiles.
Pipes his long sermon through the aisles;
Preaches to each deserted pew;
And sees no penitence, but smiles.
“The clerk alone, a merry wight,
With shrill note bids the echoes ring;
Fills every bosom with delight,
And carols louder than a king.
With shrill note bids the echoes ring;
Fills every bosom with delight,
And carols louder than a king.
“Nor is he pliant to each rite:
More glad would he the tankard swill;
Attentive to some ancient fight,
Of Boyne, Belleisle, or Bunker's-hill.
More glad would he the tankard swill;
Attentive to some ancient fight,
Of Boyne, Belleisle, or Bunker's-hill.
“Perhaps, as with sonorous shake
He startles the low-murm'ring reeds,
His thoughts excursive rove on Blake,
Or Oliver's ungracious deeds.
He startles the low-murm'ring reeds,
His thoughts excursive rove on Blake,
Or Oliver's ungracious deeds.
“The Dean, good man! is seldom here
To glaze the window's nitrous pane,
The aged widow's cry to hear,
Or whistle some facetious strain.
To glaze the window's nitrous pane,
The aged widow's cry to hear,
Or whistle some facetious strain.
204
“Last week he stript my arching glass,
Through which the dim sun sweetly shone;
With relics heap'd his loaded ass,
And claim'd the trophies as his own.
Through which the dim sun sweetly shone;
With relics heap'd his loaded ass,
And claim'd the trophies as his own.
“Ah, that the frame whose tender light
Illum'd the nun's sequester'd cell,
Should blaze, ill-doom'd, the wintry night,
And bid its long-lost post farewell!
Illum'd the nun's sequester'd cell,
Should blaze, ill-doom'd, the wintry night,
And bid its long-lost post farewell!
“The dome where sceptred monarchs knelt,
And crested chiefs with virtuous look;
Where high-born dames persuasion felt;
Now howls o'er B--- and Mrs. C---.
And crested chiefs with virtuous look;
Where high-born dames persuasion felt;
Now howls o'er B--- and Mrs. C---.
“How fall'n, that bumpkins should be kept
In that same honour'd sacred pew
Where great Macdermot pious slept,
Or Rod'rick cough'd with Brian Borooh!
In that same honour'd sacred pew
Where great Macdermot pious slept,
Or Rod'rick cough'd with Brian Borooh!
“But hark! I hear my brothers call,
To raise some soul from purgatory.”—
Away he swept in tarnish'd pall,
And here I choose to end my story.
To raise some soul from purgatory.”—
Away he swept in tarnish'd pall,
And here I choose to end my story.
| The Harp of Erin | |