 | Julia Alpinula |  |
237
Newstead Abbey.
I plucked a bluebell from thy crumbling wall,Proud Pile of proud Antiquity in tears!
Who, yet indignant at the conquering years,
Sitt'st frowning in thy wild monastic pall
On ruin, and to one lone waterfall
Mournest thy wrongs. Pale Princess! raise thy head
The planet of thy splendour is not fled,
A Voice has gone from forth thy desolate hall
A musical and melancholy voice,
Making the Years thy vassals; crowning thee,
Ev'n in thy dust and ashes as the choice,
The high-born bride of Immortality.
Thousand enamoured Pilgrims shall rejoice
To come, and cull thy glorious weeds, like me.
| Julia Alpinula | |