A Mirror of Faith :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Abbey Church is dedicate!
'Tis glorious to behold
Tall arch, slim shaft, and goodly pier,
and shrine that flames with gold.
The rich, deep hue of storied glass,
the vaulting groin on high,
The Rood-screen, with its serges seven,
and carved imagery:
Pier behind pier, and arch o'er arch,
that lead both heart and view
Where the High Altar stands to close
that matchless avenue:
But goodlier far it is to mark
the worship of the crowd;
The lords, and knights, and mighty earls,
that reverently are bowed:

And clad in gorgeous vest the Priests,
that raise the Holy Prayer;
And incense-clouds and taper bright,
and Indian jewels rare:
And as they dedicate the House
in Faith and Holy Hope,
The glistering of the silver Cross
'twixt chasuble and cope:
And goodly more than all to hear
the dread Tersanctus rise,
As in the Choir they offer up
the Mystic Sacrifice;
And antiphonal voices chant
in cadence soft and sweet,
And the Celestial Choir's response
the Organ notes complete.

The Holy Bishop steppeth forth;
his hairs are white as snow,
The Deacon holds a tome writ full
of bitterness and woe;
“Accursed,” saith the Prelate then,
“be he in future years
That layeth hands upon the house
the pious founder rears;

Accursed in the city street,
accursed in the field;
Earth give him nevermore her fruit,
nor heav'n its blessing yield;
Accursed be his going out,
accursed his coming in:
Fly him all hope, and let his prayer
be turned into sin:
In his last hour, when most his need,
all mercy fail him then!”
And all the people, as one man,
answer'd and said, “Amen.”

“Let sentence at the judgment-seat
be given against his right:
Let Satan stand at his right hand,
and let his day be night!
All ills of earth, all woes of hell,
his head and heart oppress:
And be his wife a widow,
and his children fatherless:
Let them be wanderers, seeking still
their bread as best they may:
And in few years his name and fame
from earth be put away!

He hated blessing; wherefore ne'er
let blessing come him nigh:
He loved cursing; let it then
be done accordingly!
Thus let it happen to that man!”
And solemnly again
The multitude with one man's voice
answered and said, “Amen!”

The Abbey Church is desolate!
The Abbot's faithless hand
Surrender'd up to tyrant sway
both revenues and land;
No more the Matin-songs of Praise,
nor Holy Vespers, rise;
Hush'd is the voice of Compline, ceas'd
the Daily Sacrifice:
They break the glass, they melt the brass,
they strip the massy lead:
They rifle for their lucre
the cerecloths of the dead:
They laugh to scorn the humble prayer
writ o'er the senseless clay,
That asketh, “Of youre charite
a Paternoster say:”

They overthrow the Altar tomb,
with effigy and lore,
“For Jesu's tender love, in peace
repose they evermore:”
For windows rich in imag'd Saints
the pink May blossom glows;
For frescoed roof and gilded shrine,
the nightshade and the rose:
And for the organ-note that swell'd
so mellow and so deep,
The summer gale, and winter storm,
that o'er the ivy sweep:
And for the House that once dispens'd
both words and means of grace,
Remains a spot the peasant dreads,
an ill and haunted place!
And oftimes, on the holiest ground
of all the holy fane,
You meet the rude, loud laugh, and jest,
the viands and champaigne:
Or from the heartless connoisseur,
in studied phrase you hear
Of light and shade, of heat and warmth,
of capital and pier:

Or, the philosopher will teach
how superstitious rite
And ancient mummery, have fled
before Religion's light.

The Abbey Church is well revenged!
its spoilers, where are they?
Where are the wealthy that have thriv'd
on fruit of its decay?
The curse hath brooded o'er them still,
with dry and tearless eyes;
Hath hovered o'er them as they sleep,
hath met them as they rise;
Hath hunted them from land to land,
to darkness turn'd their light;
From age to age hath followed on,
a mildew and a blight:
Their every spring of earthly joy
in bitterness hath steep'd;
They planted vines, and others drank;
they sow'd, and other reap'd:
Their argosies came back from sea,
to perish in the port;
Their brides were faithless to their troth,
or death their love cut short;

“Would God,” at close of even-tide,
they said, “that it were light!”
At peep of morning twilight,
“Would God that it were night!”
Each sight hath wrought them bitterness,
each sound hath rung a knell;
Consumption, fever, pestilence,
have done their business well;
Unnatural hate, and violent end,
on mountain, or in fen:
Strange ills, and fearful signs and deaths,
unlike the death of men:

For godless hands have Abbey lands
such fate decreed in store:
Such is the heritage that waits
Church robbers evermore!