An Historical Description of the Metropolitical Church of Christ, Canterbury .. The Second Edition, Greatly Enlarged ... Together with an Elegy, written by the Rev. John Duncombe |
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 | An Historical Description of the Metropolitical Church of Christ, Canterbury |  |
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An Elegy, written in Canterbury Cathedral.
By JOHN DUNCOMBE, M. A. ONE OF THE SIX PREACHERS. 1778.
Within these long-drawn isles, where Cynthia's light
From story'd glass receives a chequer'd hue,
Scenes long forgotten and involv'd in night,
With all their busy actors, strike my view:
Princes and peers, whose deeds of high renown
In youthful breasts still fan the marcial flame;
Prelates, who propp'd or undermin'd the crown,
Alternate subjects of applause and blame.
Oh! could these tombs their captive dead restore,
Were life rekindled in each chief and sage,
Knowledge would issue from the vaulted floor,
Each voice a comment on th' historic page.
Clarence, o'erpower'd by Scotch and Gallic foes,
New light would throw on Baugè's fatal field,
While Stratford, Morton, Wotton would disclose
State-councils long with steady faith conceal'd.
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Gibbons would animate the vocal keys;
Yet, Casaubon, my unharmonious ears
Thy strains would more attract, thy periods please.
Though Silence now her lonely sway maintains,
Copes, crosiers, cowls my mental eye surveys,
And still in Henry's and in Brenchley's fanes
The votive mass resounds, the tapers blaze:
Good Conrad's choir all-glorious I behold,
With stars bespangled, like the nightly skies:
Shrines, altars, images, with relics, gold,
And gems adorn'd, in long succession rise.
Mark well this spot! Triumphant here in death,
Hark! how proud Becket every saint invokes!
See! how he falls, and with his latest breath
Insults th' assassins, and defies their strokes!
'Till then resistless, thus subdu'd by Rome,
In garb a penitent, a beaten slave,
Great Henry, dreading a severer doom,
Lies weeping, fasting, on a rebel's grave.
As on that day of horror, when the Danes
O'er church and city dire confusion spread,
Monks, matrons, infants slaughter'd, and in chains,
To death devoted, holy Elphege led;
Those shrines, those altars, and bespangled skies
Now sink, now perish in remorseless fire,
Smoke, ashes, flames distract my dazzled eyes,
And molten lead deforms the beauteous choir.
With strength renew'd, with added beauty blest,
A choir more glorious rises from the flames,
Springs, like the phœnix, from her blazing nest,
And still, fam'd Sens, thy wondrous skill proclaims,
Thither what crowds from every clime repair,
The sick in body, the distress'd in mind,
Peers, prelates, kings, and all their weight of care,
By weightier gold assisted, leave behind!
O'er this new fane destruction still impends,
Vain is all human aid, all human trust.
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The flames repulsing by his sacred dust.
What pomp, what splendor Langton here displays,
When Becket's bones, for ages deem'd divine,
From their low tomb obsequious abbots raise,
And prelates bear them to their sumptuous shrine!
On the same spot where Becket bled, a scene
Of mirth and joy now rushes on my sight,
While the first Edward and his Gallic queen,
The brave and fair, in wedlock's bands unite.
See! from th' expanding Chequer gates proceeds
A jocund train of votaries, young and old,
And at their head, yclad in palmers weeds,
If right I ween, Dan Chaucer I behold.
'Midst nodding plumes and dirges full and slow,
What tears now stream, what sighs assail my ear!
My heart too heaves with sympathetic woe,
My tears too stream on sable Edward's bier.
Nor less the pomp, when, freed from royal care,
Fourth Henry for that tomb exchang'd his throne,
Yet more the grief, as Falstaff's friend was heir,
His riots only, not his glories, known.
Next, Holland's boast, of every cloister'd band
The scourge and dread, Erasmus I survey
With smiles attending to the monkish wand,
Which points the wealth that here sequester'd lay,
Now see that hoarded wealth, a regal prize,
Seiz'd and dispers'd by Tudor's stern decree,
And nothing left to charm our wond'ring eyes,
But marbles worn by many a holy knee.
Nor dares old Austin, in his massy gates
At first confiding, vengeful power provoke,
But sighing yields his keys, nor madly waits
The mounted battery's impetuous stroke.
This chair, that arch, the memory renew
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Langton's fam'd hall quick rising to my view,
Where monarchs grace the board, and nobles wait.
Where the fifth Charles and Henry in the ball,
As in the lifts, their active strength display,
And sage Eliza, at good Parker's call,
Adorns his banquet on her natal day.
When Calvin's sons from Artois' fruitful fields
Blind Persecution's iron hand expells,
This fostering church maternal shelter yields
Beneath her roof, where gospel freedom dwells
Beneath her spacious roof, in rites divine
Lo! various sects and various tongues unite;
In blissful league French, Germans, Britons join,
While hovering angels listen with delight.
His palace-gates old Austin opening wide,
Yon orient window shows a nuptial train:
Close, close the scene—'tis Charles's fatal bride ,
A new Pandora, fraught with every bane.
Discord soon sounds th' alarm: with clubs and stones
Fanatic zeal each mitred saint assails;
“Down rattling fall proud Becket's glassy bones,”
O'er cross and crosier Culmer's pike prevails.
The royal donor, with his blooming race,
His hapless sons, his daughters golden hair,
And, fam'd in story, Woodvile's beauteous face,
To pity mov'd, the fierce reformers spare.
The sainted pope, in fresco plac'd on high,
His height alone, not sanctity reprieves:
Font, organ, altar, all in ruins lie,
Defil'd by cattle, and despoil'd by thieves:
By thieves, who. meanly warring with the dead,
Purloin their little monumental pride,
And ev'n thy sword, black Edward, long the dread
Of hostile thousands, ravish from thy side.
But see! old Austin's palace-gates expand
Once more, to welcome a long banish'd lord,
With Monck, and Law, and Freedom, hand in hand,
A second Charles, to royalty restor'd.
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Again a blest regenerating stream,
Again that board its living bread bestows,
And voice and hand resume their heavenly theme.
Here drop the veil—no nuptial wreaths, no plumes
Funereal wave, no splendid acts succeed:
No crosier'd primate regal state assumes,
No kings now visit, and no martyrs bleed.
To this small fane, whose charms he still admires,
Where many a dean in solemn silence sleeps,
Seen by the muse, Gray's spirit oft retires,
And, 'midst the tombs, nocturnal vigils keeps.
Thee too, sage Walker o'er this hallow'd ground ,
Though now thy labours can no more delight,
She sees, an airy phantom, hover round,
Exploring, as of old, each monkish rite.
Thus, musing o'er the past, while many a scene
Of ancient pomp, long vanish'd, I survey,
Religion, seraph-like, with radiant mien,
Flash'd through the roof, and said, or seem'd to say:
“What though no pilgrims tread this vaulted floor,
“Nor royal guests our festive banquets grace,
“Happy the martyr's relics to adore,
“His mould'ring shoe, or more than human face;
“Freed from the tortures and the toys of Rome,
“Wax, incense, idols, and the painter's art,
“Nor Jew nor Pagan to the flames we doom,
“Nor court the senses, careless of the heart:
“All share the cup of blessing and of praise,
“Truths, gospel-truths, impress each vulgar ear;
“No mitred sage Sedition's flag displays,
“For Faith, and Hope, and Charity are here.
“And though, extoll'd by lying monks, this shrine
“Its wealth and legendary fame has lost,
“Richer in works Wake, Herring, Secker shine,
“And a true martyr we in Cranmer boast.”
FINIS.
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