University of Virginia Library

Search this document 
Gaston de Blondeville, or The court of Henry III

Keeping festival in Ardenne, a romance. St. Alban's Abbey, a metrical tale; With some poetical pieces. By Anne Radcliffe ... To which is prefixed: A memoir of the author, with extracts from her journals. In four volumes

collapse sectionI. 
collapse section 
  
  
collapse sectionIII,IV. 
collapse section 
  
collapse sectionI. 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
IX.
 X. 
 XI. 
 XII. 
 XIII. 
 XIV. 
 XV. 
 XVI. 
 XVII. 
 XVIII. 
 XIX. 
 XX. 
 XXI. 
  
 XXIII. 
 XXIV. 
 XXV. 
 XXVI. 
 XXVII. 
 XXVIII. 
 XXIX. 
 XXX. 
 XXXI. 
 XXXII. 
 XXXIII. 
 XXXIV. 
 XXXV. 
 XXVI. 
 XXXVII. 
 XXXVIII. 
 XXXIX. 
 XL. 
 XLI. 
 XLII. 
 XLIII. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
collapse sectionVIII. 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 X. 
 XI. 
 XII. 
 XIII. 
 XIV. 
 XV. 
 XVI. 
 XVII. 
 XVIII. 
 XIX. 
 XX. 
 XXI. 
 XXII. 
 XXIII. 
 XXIV. 
 XXV. 
 XXVI. 
 XXVII. 
 XXVIII. 
 XXIX. 
 XXX. 
 XXXI. 
 XXXII. 
 XXXIII. 
 XXXIV. 
 XXXV. 
 XXXVI. 
 XXXVII. 
 XXXVIII. 
 XXXIX. 
 XL. 
 XLI. 
 XLII. 
 IX. 
 X. 
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
  

IX.

But ye, with measured step and slow,
Whose smile is shaded soft with woe;
And ye, who holy joy can know,
The glow beyond all other glow,—
Ye, whose high spirit dares to dwell
Beyond the reach of earthly spell,
And tread upon the dizzy verge
Of unknown worlds; or downward urge,
Through ages dim, your steadfast sight,
And trace their shapes of shadowed light,
O come “with meek submitted thought,”
With lifted eye, by Rapture taught,
And o'er your head the gloom shall rise
Of monkish chambers, still and wide,
As once they stood; and to your eyes
Group after group shall slowly glide,
And here again their duties ply,
As they were wont, long ages by.
The twilight broods not yet so deep,
But we may trace where now they sleep

101

Beneath the sullen turf, aloof,
And where each solemn chamber's roof
Drew it's strong vaulting o'er their frames,
But urged on human praise no claims,
Nor always bore their living names.