University of Virginia Library

O thou dear relic of a happier day!
Fair in thy bloom, still fair in thy decay!
Amidst thy foliaged hills embosom'd round
In silent depths of solitude profound,
Far from the tumults of a world unblest,
A lovely vision of celestial rest!
Tintern! how many blithesome Mays had pass'd
Since thou and Euthanase had parted last!
Yet e'en upon his childhood's tender mind
So firm an impress hadst thou left behind,
That, as again his wistful eyes survey'd
Thy rising form emboss'd in sun and shade,
At once, like some medallion of gold
Fitted again into its ancient mould,
His memory's inward image, line for line
And touch for touch, resolved itself in thine!
Another reach, and on the buoyant tide
Beneath the Abbey precincts calm they glide.

There, to the sloping marge as they drew nigh,
Lo! on its breadth of green declivity,
A band of Harpers seated row in row,
With long descending beards as white as snow,
Their brows antique with budding oak-leaf bound,
Their necks with silver rings encircled round,
From whose accordant strokes in dulcet swell
Bursts of harmonious welcome rose and fell;
A bardic throng; with one who seem'd their head,
And on a golden lyre the Pæan led.
In purple robe and panoply of state
On a triumphal car aloft he sate,
Drawn by two antler'd stags, who meekly stand
In trappings bright, obedient to command.
Of whom thus Theodore, interpreting
The other's glance: “Behold the Cambrian King!
Teudric, who cast his regal crown aside,
And here a hermit lived, a martyr died,
(Borne by two stags, so holy legends say,
Wounded and fainting from the Pagan fray),
Long ere the Abbey with its tuneful bells
Awoke the echoes of the woodland dells.
Now o'er the Solitude he loved of yore
He reigns its Guardian Saint for evermore!
Hail, Martyr King!” Thus as he spoke, the barge
Its numbers had outpour'd upon the marge,
And marshall'd from his chariot, two and two,
By that high Seneschal in order due,
Skirting a ruin'd length of cloister gray,
The sacred pomp proceeded on its way.

Silent and slow, behind the minstrel choir,
His heart with expectation all on fire,
Follow'd the monk his Theodore beside;
When on the left a wicket open wide
Discloses, through a moss-grown arch, to sight,
An orchard in a blooming flush of white;
There they turn in; the rest their course pursue,
And round the winding way are lost to view.
“To meet our sacred Lady they proceed,”
Said Theodore; “but thou, most dear, take heed,
And if within thy breast there linger yet
One earthborn hope, affection, or regret,
Purge it at once, for all is heavenly here,
Nor may with worldly dross admixture bear.
Breathe but a single wish, a single sigh,
For aught of mutabilities gone by,
And all thou seest—rapt from thee away—
Dissolves for ever like a dream of day!”

“Fear not lest such an evil me betide,”
The son of sainted Francis quick replied;
“For if, so far in years, myself I know,
Neither in Heav'n above nor earth below
Is aught that I desire, except it be
The Vision of my sweetest God to see,
And of that Lady in her splendour bright
Whom thy report has promised to my sight.”

A smile of tenderest pity, as of one
To whom in God the hidden things are known,
And all the frailties to our state allied,
Rippled his cheek. “Ah, Euthanase,” he sigh'd,
“Little the soul of her true weakness knows,
Till off this cheating mortal coil she throws;
And oft she finds, by sad experience taught,
The world far stronger in her than she thought.
Still in the heart, with difficulty wean'd,
Some earthly phantom lingers to the end;
E'en still, though mortified to present things,
To some affection of the past it clings;
Revivifies delights for ever fled,
And loves as living whom it mourns as dead!”

He paused; but Euthanase his spirit check'd,
Conscious within of manifold defect,
And breathing forth a sigh to Him who sees
Each heart with all its hidden miseries,
Beneath o'er-roofing blossoms held his way,
Till forth he steps into the open day,
Where in a mead which peaceful heifers graze
The Abbey Church its Eastern end displays.

All beautiful it stood, so fresh and fair,
'Twas difficult to feel that death was there,
A sadly soothing scene! Whereon the while
He gazed with tears he could not all beguile,
As on the bier of some fair vestal maid
In saintly sleep before the altar laid:
“O Theodore, rememberest thou,” he cried,
“How once before, at our dear mother's side,
Here we stood gazing, when in childhood's day,
On such another pleasant morn of May,
Hither she brought us with thy sister fair
To show us what the former glories were?
And how upon the sod she made us kneel
And say an Ave for our country's weal,
That once again poor England might enjoy
The Faith which she had gloried to destroy?
And now how many years are past and gone,
Yet still in heresy she lingers on!
Still spurns the hand outstretch'd to heal her woes!
Still on her course of ruin blindly goes,
From bad to worse, from worse to worse again,
As though for her return all prayer were vain!”

“Who change the truth of God into a lie,
Tough is the knot their children must untie,”
His friend in turn. “Yet, O my Brother, know
Things are not wholly as they seem below,
And through this Island such a work of grace
Already has begun and moves apace,
That at th' unwonted mercy in amaze
The very Angels tremble as they gaze.
But, hark! what chanted anthem, soft and clear,
Forth floating from the choir salutes mine ear?”

Thus as he spoke, upon the balmy air
Uprose distinctly, as from monks at prayer,
A solemn, plaintive, melancholy strain,
That brought the Lamentations back again
Of Holy Week: “How lone in its decay
Lies the fair glory of a former day!
How mourneth Holy Church her ancient home,
So ruin'd all and desolate become!
O quit the path thy guilty feet have trod,
Return, return thee, England, to thy God!

“The ways of Sion mourn; her sighs ascend
Because so few her solemn Feasts attend,
Her gates are broken down, her altars rent;
Her priests and virgins in her aisles lament.
O England, see the ruin thou hast made;
Return, return thee, whence thy feet have stray'd!

“Weeping, fair Sion's Daughter weeps to see
Oppressors ruling in her Sanctuary;
A nation once her own her name despise,
And all her lovers turn'd to enemies.
O England, quit the path which thou hast trod,
Return, return thee to thy Lord and God!”

A dying close—and all was still again;
But Euthanase, held captive by the strain,
Was standing rapt, when Theodore his mind
Recalling with a touch, an arm entwined
In his; and him, as one in vision, led
Across the fragrant cowslip-mantled mead,
To where, all basking in a summer glow,
The Southern Transept show'd its portal low.
“Our entrance see,” he cries; “but thou, dear friend,
To what I do with earnest heed attend,
And do the same.” Therewith across his breast
Salvation's Sign he drew, and forward press'd
The yielding door;—a moment, and a prayer,
Pausing, he breathes upon the trembling air,
The next—and round them hush'd in calm repose
Thy lovely walls, Cistercian Tintern, rose!

Silent they gazed. Serene and bright it lay
The same as when beheld in childhood's day,
A sylvan Temple! where for pavement fair
Of intersecting marbles rich and rare
The sward of centuries had spread a floor,
Smooth as the printless sand upon the shore;
Where for emblazon'd roof the open sky
Display'd its blue unclouded canopy;
Where over shafted pillar, hanging wall,
Mullion and groin and arch symmetrical,
Ivy of eld its glossy folds had wound,
And draped itself in rich festoons around;
While pennon-like from every crossing height
Saplings of ash and oak in golden light
Hung tremulous. Nor wanted flow'rets there
For altars, had they been; nor to the air
Wanted exuberance of incense sweet
Outbreathed from hidden beds of violet;
So tenderly had wrought thy touch divine,
Nature, dear haunter of the ruin'd shrine!
Coming a gentle mourner, day by day
With patient love to beautify decay,
And using all the craft thy fingers can
To make atonement for the wreck of man!

Silent they gazed. 'Twas vacant all and still;
No sound except the nestling's smother'd trill—
No footfall up or down—no form in sight—
The smile of day, the solitude of night!
Another glance—and as at morning-tide,
Adown the Nave of some Cathedral wide,
When the first beams of early twilight faint
Begin the storied windows to impaint,
Figures and draperies of varied hue
By unperceived degrees emerge to view;
At first, a tinted maze without design,
Then radiating, forming, line by line,
Till cluster'd thick in many a noble band
Virgins and Martyrs forth in glory stand;
So now—for where the sunbeams send apace
Through the tall Eastern window's empty space
Full on the grassy floor their flood of light,
Lo, figures dimly breaking on the sight!
Till, as from some interior depth conceal'd,
A living group of monks itself reveal'd!

Clear in the floodgate of the orient tide,
The Chancel down, some twenty of a side,
Upon the sward they knelt, in act of prayer,
Distinct in tunic, cowl, and scapular,
Cistercians all—their eyelids downward bent,
Their lips compress'd in silence eloquent,
Their arms devoutly cross'd.—Anon they rise,
And through the ruin'd Nave procession-wise
With miserere chant, and cleansing spray
Of lustral waters scatter'd on their way,
Their Abbot last of all, in solemn state
Go slowly wending to the Western gate,
There issue forth, and ranged on either hand,
Outside the Abbey-Minster take their stand.
Whom following observant close behind
The twain among the rest a station find.