England A Historical Poem. By John Walker Ord |
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THE SUPPRESSION OF THE MONASTERIES.
REIGN OF HENRY VIII. |
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THE SUPPRESSION OF THE MONASTERIES. REIGN OF HENRY VIII.
“The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherits shall dissolve,
And, like the baseless fabric of a vision,
Leave not a wreck behind.”
—Shakspeare.
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherits shall dissolve,
And, like the baseless fabric of a vision,
Leave not a wreck behind.”
—Shakspeare.
In splendour and in majesty they stood,
Where silent dells receive the morning ray,
And echo mates with peace and solitude:—
They stood, in glory, where sweet waters play
In concord, sweetly mingling in their way,
And kiss the drooping flowers that meet their wave.
Majestic and sublime, they met the day;
Huge monuments, whose mighty names shall brave
Oblivion's dull decay—the silence of the grave.
Where silent dells receive the morning ray,
And echo mates with peace and solitude:—
They stood, in glory, where sweet waters play
In concord, sweetly mingling in their way,
And kiss the drooping flowers that meet their wave.
Majestic and sublime, they met the day;
Huge monuments, whose mighty names shall brave
Oblivion's dull decay—the silence of the grave.
Their bells were heard at evening, swelling clear,
By pilgrims wandering o'er the heath-clad hill:
Sweet contemplation ever lingered near,
And, 'mid these quiet places, took her fill:
And pensively reclining, by the rill
That wash'd their walls, and gurgled sweetly by,
The poet wreath'd his curious ditties, till
The silence was enamour'd, and the eye
Of Nature stream'd with tears to hear his melody.
By pilgrims wandering o'er the heath-clad hill:
Sweet contemplation ever lingered near,
And, 'mid these quiet places, took her fill:
And pensively reclining, by the rill
That wash'd their walls, and gurgled sweetly by,
The poet wreath'd his curious ditties, till
The silence was enamour'd, and the eye
Of Nature stream'd with tears to hear his melody.
204
O Tintern, Tintern, beauteous in decay!
Magnificent, with robes dishevelled!
Still dost thou proudly hold thy ancient sway!
Still dost thou bear erect thy haughty head,
Though all thy former might and power are dead!
Thy arches, richly carv'd, serenely stand;
Thy tombstones all below our feet lie spread;
Still, like a conqueror, dost thou stretch thy hand;
Though wounded at thy heart, still dost thou hold command!
Magnificent, with robes dishevelled!
Still dost thou proudly hold thy ancient sway!
Still dost thou bear erect thy haughty head,
Though all thy former might and power are dead!
Thy arches, richly carv'd, serenely stand;
Thy tombstones all below our feet lie spread;
Still, like a conqueror, dost thou stretch thy hand;
Though wounded at thy heart, still dost thou hold command!
Bareheaded let us go among thine aisles,
And ponder o'er the wreck of human clay.
Sacred to meditation are these piles
To men who love to think, or bend to pray;
Here dwelt a mighty race—gone is their day!
Here saintly worship did ascend on high;
And holy saints, at midnight, watch'd the ray
Of heaven's pure realms, and gaz'd in ecstacy
On the pure worlds that stretch along the sleeping sky!
And ponder o'er the wreck of human clay.
Sacred to meditation are these piles
To men who love to think, or bend to pray;
Here dwelt a mighty race—gone is their day!
Here saintly worship did ascend on high;
And holy saints, at midnight, watch'd the ray
Of heaven's pure realms, and gaz'd in ecstacy
On the pure worlds that stretch along the sleeping sky!
Why should we doubt that in this solitude
Of woods, and trees, and brooks, and gentleness,
Full many a holy patriarch lov'd to brood;
Learning to commune with his heart, and bless
The God who gave him hope and happiness.
The birds would sing to him, the sylvan Wye
Murmur within his dreams joy's deep excess;
These lovely woods send forth their melody,
As the winds shook their leaves, to love and ecstacy.
Of woods, and trees, and brooks, and gentleness,
Full many a holy patriarch lov'd to brood;
Learning to commune with his heart, and bless
The God who gave him hope and happiness.
The birds would sing to him, the sylvan Wye
Murmur within his dreams joy's deep excess;
These lovely woods send forth their melody,
As the winds shook their leaves, to love and ecstacy.
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At noon, the golden sun would shed his light,
Through painted windows, o'er each arch and tomb;
At noon, the fleeced clouds of gold and white
Floated serene above him. There was room
For thought in midnight's melancholy gloom;
Or, when the silver stars came out and threw
Their glory on these towers, and did illume
The bosom of sweet Wye with crystal hue,
These priests of God were touch'd with feelings strange and new.
Through painted windows, o'er each arch and tomb;
At noon, the fleeced clouds of gold and white
Floated serene above him. There was room
For thought in midnight's melancholy gloom;
Or, when the silver stars came out and threw
Their glory on these towers, and did illume
The bosom of sweet Wye with crystal hue,
These priests of God were touch'd with feelings strange and new.
Oh, let us hope the best, and let us deem
That these delightful landscapes had a charm
That mingled with each impulse, thought, and dream;
That these green trees and solemn shades did warm
His adoration, and kept off each charm
Of worldly aims. Religion is the love
Of God; and Nature ever can disarm
The sense of sensual things. The feelings move
Upward to heavenly hopes, to Him who is above!
That these delightful landscapes had a charm
That mingled with each impulse, thought, and dream;
That these green trees and solemn shades did warm
His adoration, and kept off each charm
Of worldly aims. Religion is the love
Of God; and Nature ever can disarm
The sense of sensual things. The feelings move
Upward to heavenly hopes, to Him who is above!
Hundreds of years, O Tintern, hath the blast
Of ages swept thy forehead, and gone down
Along thy naked ribs. Lone and aghast,
For ages hast thou stood, in pomp alone,
Even like a stricken giant, who doth groan,
Chain'd on a solitary cliff. The time
Is o'er of thy past splendour; but the tone
Of greatness, as a garment, tells thy prime;
Perchance thy fallen state is ev'n the most sublime.
Of ages swept thy forehead, and gone down
Along thy naked ribs. Lone and aghast,
For ages hast thou stood, in pomp alone,
Even like a stricken giant, who doth groan,
Chain'd on a solitary cliff. The time
Is o'er of thy past splendour; but the tone
Of greatness, as a garment, tells thy prime;
Perchance thy fallen state is ev'n the most sublime.
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For now thy roof it is the circling sky,
Begemm'd with all its lustres. The bright sun
Can gaze upon thee; in thy bosom lie
These woods; and all their impulses may run
Into thy dreams. The winds will never shun
Thy solitudes, but woo thee from afar;
And O, when dull and languid day is done,
Thou shalt behold each bright and lovely star,
And the entrancing moon shall hail thee from her car.
Begemm'd with all its lustres. The bright sun
Can gaze upon thee; in thy bosom lie
These woods; and all their impulses may run
Into thy dreams. The winds will never shun
Thy solitudes, but woo thee from afar;
And O, when dull and languid day is done,
Thou shalt behold each bright and lovely star,
And the entrancing moon shall hail thee from her car.
Yet Tintern, Tinern! thou art not the same
As when thy walls first met the wandering eye!
Yet, proud as ever in the rolls of fame
Thou art, as when stol'd monks went idly by,
Or mailed bishops, full of chivalry,
Sought the ensanguined field! (O, can it be?)
But change hath come upon thee. We espy
The wild-ash, the young oak, and willow-tree,
The briar, and the ivy, fix their roots to thee.
As when thy walls first met the wandering eye!
Yet, proud as ever in the rolls of fame
Thou art, as when stol'd monks went idly by,
Or mailed bishops, full of chivalry,
Sought the ensanguined field! (O, can it be?)
But change hath come upon thee. We espy
The wild-ash, the young oak, and willow-tree,
The briar, and the ivy, fix their roots to thee.
Life feeds on death; and the sweet wild-flower grows
On human dust: and the rich-waving green
Is fatten'd on corruption's inward throes.
Where the loud organ sounded far, I ween,
Where chanted vespers sanctified the scene,
Now shrieks the night-bird to his absent mate:
And ancient monks, who in these walls have been,
Methinks do, ghost-like, roam on each lone height,
Where desolation gnaws this pomp and royal state.
On human dust: and the rich-waving green
Is fatten'd on corruption's inward throes.
Where the loud organ sounded far, I ween,
Where chanted vespers sanctified the scene,
Now shrieks the night-bird to his absent mate:
And ancient monks, who in these walls have been,
Methinks do, ghost-like, roam on each lone height,
Where desolation gnaws this pomp and royal state.
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The grass is a green carpet for our feet,
Where priests knelt down upon the marble stone;
The sun, at evening, showers a purple sheet
Through skeleton arches, whose huge pomp is gone.
I stand 'mid these rich solitudes, alone,
And see the solitary yew-tree bend
His midnight tresses, that are idly thrown,
Even like a warrior's plume along, and lend
A tale that tells us plain all mortal things shall end.
Where priests knelt down upon the marble stone;
The sun, at evening, showers a purple sheet
Through skeleton arches, whose huge pomp is gone.
I stand 'mid these rich solitudes, alone,
And see the solitary yew-tree bend
His midnight tresses, that are idly thrown,
Even like a warrior's plume along, and lend
A tale that tells us plain all mortal things shall end.
Glory is gone from Tintern's wrinkled brow;
The limbs that bore its strength are broken down;
Its battlements are ever crumbling low;
A gem is gone from its imperial crown!
Yet will we not lament, but rather own
A grateful feeling, and a memory
Of blessed thoughts, that years will ne'er disown.
Still doth it wield a spell that lifts us high:
We tread on hallow'd ground—on fallen majesty.
The limbs that bore its strength are broken down;
Its battlements are ever crumbling low;
A gem is gone from its imperial crown!
Yet will we not lament, but rather own
A grateful feeling, and a memory
Of blessed thoughts, that years will ne'er disown.
Still doth it wield a spell that lifts us high:
We tread on hallow'd ground—on fallen majesty.
Glory is gone from Tintern! Lamentation
Breathes from its ivy boughs for glory gone!
'Twas sanctified by an applauding nation,
When rear'd; loud joy was heard to see its throne
O'erturned. Majestic, now, it stands alone,
Solemn and stately. It is shelter'd round
By loving nature from the tempest's tone;
(Who, as a mother, doth her child surround)
And sweetest music swells within its hallow'd bound.
Breathes from its ivy boughs for glory gone!
'Twas sanctified by an applauding nation,
When rear'd; loud joy was heard to see its throne
O'erturned. Majestic, now, it stands alone,
Solemn and stately. It is shelter'd round
By loving nature from the tempest's tone;
(Who, as a mother, doth her child surround)
And sweetest music swells within its hallow'd bound.
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Sweet cottages among the trees stand out,
Snow-white, and send their circling smoke on high;
You hear the shepherd-boy in distance shout—
The ploughman's song—the milkmaid's evening cry;
You hear the skylark warbling in the sky.
Tintern is fading—but the woods are green
With summer, and the harvests proudly lie
In gold, and gladness animates each scene:
And love, hope, joy are here, where they have ever been!
Snow-white, and send their circling smoke on high;
You hear the shepherd-boy in distance shout—
The ploughman's song—the milkmaid's evening cry;
You hear the skylark warbling in the sky.
Tintern is fading—but the woods are green
With summer, and the harvests proudly lie
In gold, and gladness animates each scene:
And love, hope, joy are here, where they have ever been!
Proudly, ye ancient abbeys, did ye stand
Among our fields and groves; and still we see
Your ancient towers far-spreading o'er the land!
Tintern is fading; Fountain's majesty
Is past; and Rievaulx never more will be
The mighty thing it was. Melrose hath lost
A gem; and Furness groans beside the sea;
Guisborough's huge arch is crumbling, and the blast
Revels around its stones—its mighty sway is past!
Among our fields and groves; and still we see
Your ancient towers far-spreading o'er the land!
Tintern is fading; Fountain's majesty
Is past; and Rievaulx never more will be
The mighty thing it was. Melrose hath lost
A gem; and Furness groans beside the sea;
Guisborough's huge arch is crumbling, and the blast
Revels around its stones—its mighty sway is past!
Yet Fountain's still is lovely. In a dell
It lies, where a sweet river wends its way
Through Studley's fair domain. One tower doth swell
Afar into the heavens, and meets the ray
Of evening on its brow. The moonbeams play
Along its tombs; and, circled all around
With giant trees, it proudly meets the day.
The loveliest green—the loveliest streams surround
This mighty pile, and nature sends each sweetest sound.
It lies, where a sweet river wends its way
Through Studley's fair domain. One tower doth swell
Afar into the heavens, and meets the ray
Of evening on its brow. The moonbeams play
Along its tombs; and, circled all around
With giant trees, it proudly meets the day.
The loveliest green—the loveliest streams surround
This mighty pile, and nature sends each sweetest sound.
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Thron'd far away in mountain solitude,
Stands stately Rievaulx, link'd unto the past,
Enthron'd it is 'mid many a beauteous wood,
And shading trees protect it from the blast:
Northward the healthy mountains hold it fast,
And send their shattering tempests o'er its head;
Yet lovely landscapes and fair valleys cast
A fragrance and a beauty. It is wed
With Nature—Nature twines green laurels for its dead.
Stands stately Rievaulx, link'd unto the past,
Enthron'd it is 'mid many a beauteous wood,
And shading trees protect it from the blast:
Northward the healthy mountains hold it fast,
And send their shattering tempests o'er its head;
Yet lovely landscapes and fair valleys cast
A fragrance and a beauty. It is wed
With Nature—Nature twines green laurels for its dead.
Melrose is not unsung. The mighty bard
Of Caledonia strung for this his lyre.
He, sitting lonely on the grassy sward,
Caught from its ruins inspiration's fire,
And struck, seraphic, his enraptur'd lyre.
He lieth near it, in the solemn tomb,
And where a bard may rest. And, like a sire,
Lamenting o'er his child, this abbey's gloom
To Dryburgh calls aloud, lamenting o'er his doom!
Of Caledonia strung for this his lyre.
He, sitting lonely on the grassy sward,
Caught from its ruins inspiration's fire,
And struck, seraphic, his enraptur'd lyre.
He lieth near it, in the solemn tomb,
And where a bard may rest. And, like a sire,
Lamenting o'er his child, this abbey's gloom
To Dryburgh calls aloud, lamenting o'er his doom!
And Furness, too, is sung—sung in loud strain,
By one whose harp was once a joy to me;
Harp, sweet as is an angel's to the brain
Of dying saint. Alas, it cannot be
Again! and, O, it is an agony
To look on cloudless youth and rapture gone!
On joys that, as the wavelets of the sea,
Fall never more to rise; and, with a tone,
Mournful, as if the grave itself did heave a groan!
By one whose harp was once a joy to me;
Harp, sweet as is an angel's to the brain
Of dying saint. Alas, it cannot be
Again! and, O, it is an agony
To look on cloudless youth and rapture gone!
On joys that, as the wavelets of the sea,
Fall never more to rise; and, with a tone,
Mournful, as if the grave itself did heave a groan!
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But thou, majestic arch of Guisborough,
That, like a weary giant, standest proud;
Or an enchantress weeping o'er her woe,
And calling on dead spirits from their shroud!
Thou never hast been sung; no hymnings loud
Have e'er saluted thee; thou art my own—
The lady of my lay, with life endow'd.
Yea, as with human voice, thou callest down,
That Poetry may robe thee with her fadeless crown!
That, like a weary giant, standest proud;
Or an enchantress weeping o'er her woe,
And calling on dead spirits from their shroud!
Thou never hast been sung; no hymnings loud
Have e'er saluted thee; thou art my own—
The lady of my lay, with life endow'd.
Yea, as with human voice, thou callest down,
That Poetry may robe thee with her fadeless crown!
Bright is thy dwelling-place; wood, crag, and hill
Environ thee, and thou art lord, and king,
And ruler over them; they own thy will.
The moonbeams are thy garments; wild birds sing
Within thy bowers, and fill with murmuring
The trees that bloom where once thy pillars stood.
The mildest breezes shake their dewy wing
Through thy dim shades; and lonely pilgrims brood
Over the grassy turf, where sleep the just and good.
Environ thee, and thou art lord, and king,
And ruler over them; they own thy will.
The moonbeams are thy garments; wild birds sing
Within thy bowers, and fill with murmuring
The trees that bloom where once thy pillars stood.
The mildest breezes shake their dewy wing
Through thy dim shades; and lonely pilgrims brood
Over the grassy turf, where sleep the just and good.
O, when I was a glad and happy boy,
Without a care, without a fear or woe,
'Twas my delight, my nearest, dearest joy,
To gaze on thee, and up thy pathways go,
Gazing from thy proud turrets to and fro!
To see the woods around, that idly lay
Shrouded in misty sunlight; and to know
That now I stood where monks were wont to pray,
Hundreds of years ago, who now were in the clay!
Without a care, without a fear or woe,
'Twas my delight, my nearest, dearest joy,
To gaze on thee, and up thy pathways go,
Gazing from thy proud turrets to and fro!
To see the woods around, that idly lay
Shrouded in misty sunlight; and to know
That now I stood where monks were wont to pray,
Hundreds of years ago, who now were in the clay!
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O, often have I climb'd thy broken stair,
And lov'd to hear the tempest moan and sigh;
And fancied spirits wander'd in the air,
Sent down as guardian angels from the sky;
Or deem'd that shrouded monks were stalking by,
Or helmed knights, all clad in shining mail;
And as I gazed about with timid eye,
Seen lovely shapes upon the evening gale,
Or fairies, silken-hair'd, along the moonbeams sail.
And lov'd to hear the tempest moan and sigh;
And fancied spirits wander'd in the air,
Sent down as guardian angels from the sky;
Or deem'd that shrouded monks were stalking by,
Or helmed knights, all clad in shining mail;
And as I gazed about with timid eye,
Seen lovely shapes upon the evening gale,
Or fairies, silken-hair'd, along the moonbeams sail.
Fallen are ye all, and desolation's maw
Enfolds ye!—Time, the conqueror, holds ye now
In galling chains, and will not let you go!
White are the tresses on your wrinkled brow,
And weak those tottering limbs that bend so low:—
And wild-flowers deck your temples; and the nest
Of the sweet wild-bird lies, where death, I trow,
With life is mingled on your moulder'd breast—
Like you, at last, to crumble into placid rest.
Enfolds ye!—Time, the conqueror, holds ye now
In galling chains, and will not let you go!
White are the tresses on your wrinkled brow,
And weak those tottering limbs that bend so low:—
And wild-flowers deck your temples; and the nest
Of the sweet wild-bird lies, where death, I trow,
With life is mingled on your moulder'd breast—
Like you, at last, to crumble into placid rest.
Yea, that huge faith is shatter'd that held sway
On kings and nations. The enormous chain
Is broken. Rome, that in the ancient day,
Conquer'd with arms and arts, arose again;
And despotism enthrall'd the aching brain:
Yea, basest superstition held her still.
She that was great in all things, did ordain
Rites wild as Zoroasters, and with will
Tyrannic, held her state, and took her ample fill.
On kings and nations. The enormous chain
Is broken. Rome, that in the ancient day,
Conquer'd with arms and arts, arose again;
And despotism enthrall'd the aching brain:
Yea, basest superstition held her still.
She that was great in all things, did ordain
Rites wild as Zoroasters, and with will
Tyrannic, held her state, and took her ample fill.
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Her fill of groans, and treasures, and of blood,
And madness, and despair!—She, from on high,
In pomp and splendour, did serenely brood,
And, 'mid the inquisition's glooms did lie,
Feeding on lust, and death, and tyranny.
The silent places heard her dreadful feet,
And holy men in solitude did sigh;
'Mid craggs and mountain-caves, she took her seat,
And rul'd in winter tempest, and in summer heat.
And madness, and despair!—She, from on high,
In pomp and splendour, did serenely brood,
And, 'mid the inquisition's glooms did lie,
Feeding on lust, and death, and tyranny.
The silent places heard her dreadful feet,
And holy men in solitude did sigh;
'Mid craggs and mountain-caves, she took her seat,
And rul'd in winter tempest, and in summer heat.
Old men, and little children on their knees,
Were murder'd; and the bitter groan was heard
In places sacred to the murmuring breeze,
The sound of streams, the warble of the bird.
They heeded not the supplicating word;
The voice of prayer and praise past heedless by;
Yea, men like fiends, of form and face abhorr'd,
Held horrid orgies, and made revelry
Amid the bleeding corpses that lay weltering nigh.
Were murder'd; and the bitter groan was heard
In places sacred to the murmuring breeze,
The sound of streams, the warble of the bird.
They heeded not the supplicating word;
The voice of prayer and praise past heedless by;
Yea, men like fiends, of form and face abhorr'd,
Held horrid orgies, and made revelry
Amid the bleeding corpses that lay weltering nigh.
The eagles' shriek with shriek of ravish'd maid,
Sounded, and the wolf howl'd in company:
Heaven heard them call to it aloud for aid,
When holy priests were dying. There was glee
Among the mountain spirits; every tree
Was shook as with a blast, and every river
Stain'd with red blood, roll'd down into the sea;
Whilst ocean wept, as he would weep for ever,
O'er woes and griefs that bound him in their wild endeavour.
Sounded, and the wolf howl'd in company:
Heaven heard them call to it aloud for aid,
When holy priests were dying. There was glee
Among the mountain spirits; every tree
Was shook as with a blast, and every river
Stain'd with red blood, roll'd down into the sea;
Whilst ocean wept, as he would weep for ever,
O'er woes and griefs that bound him in their wild endeavour.
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In their proud abbeys, where, in solitude,
The philosophic mind might think and pray;
Here, where the saint had choice and holy food,
Did sensual lusts and wills hold constant sway.
Beset with luxuries, they spent each day
In indolence; and, drunk with wine, sunk down
At night, where fat and swoll'n like hogs, they lay,
Preferring earthly for the heavenly crown,
And earthly court and pleasure for a heavenly throne.
The philosophic mind might think and pray;
Here, where the saint had choice and holy food,
Did sensual lusts and wills hold constant sway.
Beset with luxuries, they spent each day
In indolence; and, drunk with wine, sunk down
At night, where fat and swoll'n like hogs, they lay,
Preferring earthly for the heavenly crown,
And earthly court and pleasure for a heavenly throne.
The mind was held in thraldom, and the book
Of God denounc'd; and to the scorching fire
The holiest saints to martyrdom they took.
Europe they made a desert; and for hire
Of Kings, they conquer'd freedom; nor did tire—
But, blood-hound like, kept scent unto the last.
They eat up all our wealth, and to the mire,
Like dogs, drove down our freemen:—but the blast
Hath swept among their columns, and their sway is past!
Of God denounc'd; and to the scorching fire
The holiest saints to martyrdom they took.
Europe they made a desert; and for hire
Of Kings, they conquer'd freedom; nor did tire—
But, blood-hound like, kept scent unto the last.
They eat up all our wealth, and to the mire,
Like dogs, drove down our freemen:—but the blast
Hath swept among their columns, and their sway is past!
The faith of Christ was pure, and mild, and good;
Simple in precept; gentle and refin'd;
Calm, holy, just, to humbleness subdued.
The old creeds, shook like chaff before the wind,—
Gave way before its triumph. It was twin'd
With man's sublimest feelings; and in time,
Hallow'd by Christ's own blood, did learn to find
Its way to monarchs' courts; and, soar'd sublime
In native strength and power, o'er every world and clime.
Simple in precept; gentle and refin'd;
Calm, holy, just, to humbleness subdued.
The old creeds, shook like chaff before the wind,—
Gave way before its triumph. It was twin'd
With man's sublimest feelings; and in time,
Hallow'd by Christ's own blood, did learn to find
Its way to monarchs' courts; and, soar'd sublime
In native strength and power, o'er every world and clime.
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This, too, they stopp'd upon its march, and bound
Its progress. When beneath the open sky
Christ worshipp'd, and the thousands did surround;
This Christ, the Jews despis'd. Their constant cry
Was wealth and power, and kingly monarchy!
And this the Popish creed at length had made;
They did rear gorgeous temples for the eye;
Chang'd priests to kings, and o'er the nations sway'd
With cannon, sword, and spear, and men in arms array'd!
Its progress. When beneath the open sky
Christ worshipp'd, and the thousands did surround;
This Christ, the Jews despis'd. Their constant cry
Was wealth and power, and kingly monarchy!
And this the Popish creed at length had made;
They did rear gorgeous temples for the eye;
Chang'd priests to kings, and o'er the nations sway'd
With cannon, sword, and spear, and men in arms array'd!
With mummeries outrageous, every shrine
Was then polluted: with the mimicry
Of sound, they worshipp'd Christ, who was divine.
With absurd miracles, their priests did try
To mock at human reason, and defy
The intellect of man. They did create
A hideous and a strange mythology
Of many gods; and gave unhallow'd state
To goddesses unknown, with whom their creed did mate.
Was then polluted: with the mimicry
Of sound, they worshipp'd Christ, who was divine.
With absurd miracles, their priests did try
To mock at human reason, and defy
The intellect of man. They did create
A hideous and a strange mythology
Of many gods; and gave unhallow'd state
To goddesses unknown, with whom their creed did mate.
Still must imaginative poetry
Love to recline beneath each ancient wall;
And strive to fancy 'mid their tracery
Of visions high and pure. I hear the call
Of the clear bells upon dim evening fall;
I hear the vesper hymn; I see the train
Of beauteous nuns;—I see the drooping pall;
I hear amid these trees the choral strain;
And sounds are in my soul, as of the distant main!
Love to recline beneath each ancient wall;
And strive to fancy 'mid their tracery
Of visions high and pure. I hear the call
Of the clear bells upon dim evening fall;
I hear the vesper hymn; I see the train
Of beauteous nuns;—I see the drooping pall;
I hear amid these trees the choral strain;
And sounds are in my soul, as of the distant main!
215
The gentle Usk is murmuring at my feet;
The old Beacon mountains swell into the sky,
Cover'd with mists as with a winding sheet.
'Tis morn, and glittering dews around me lie;
Green woods, rich pastures, meet the enraptur'd eye,
And happy human sounds are in mine ear!—
How gladly might the poet live and die,
Passing a pure and holy hermit here,
Nor know of worldly strife, sigh, agony, and tear!
The old Beacon mountains swell into the sky,
Cover'd with mists as with a winding sheet.
'Tis morn, and glittering dews around me lie;
Green woods, rich pastures, meet the enraptur'd eye,
And happy human sounds are in mine ear!—
How gladly might the poet live and die,
Passing a pure and holy hermit here,
Nor know of worldly strife, sigh, agony, and tear!
It is the Sabbath day, and Brecon's towers
Send sound of silver bells, the call to prayer.
There is a quiet 'mong the woodland bowers;
There is a quiet in the silent air;
There is a holy stillness everywhere
That seems to whisper of the Sabbath day!
O, long may truth and pure religion bear
Over these happy isles their righteous sway;
And palsied be the hand that would withdraw their ray.
Send sound of silver bells, the call to prayer.
There is a quiet 'mong the woodland bowers;
There is a quiet in the silent air;
There is a holy stillness everywhere
That seems to whisper of the Sabbath day!
O, long may truth and pure religion bear
Over these happy isles their righteous sway;
And palsied be the hand that would withdraw their ray.
The temples of the sun amid the sand
Of Egypt crumble low. Each giant dome
Of old mythology hath lost command:
The Jewish creed is left without a home;
Its wretched worshippers unpitied roam.
The Druid shrines are rent and shattered;
The Papal sovereignty hath found a tomb—
But the pure truth of Christ shall rear its head,
Thron'd on the rock of time—with the Eternal wed!
Of Egypt crumble low. Each giant dome
Of old mythology hath lost command:
The Jewish creed is left without a home;
Its wretched worshippers unpitied roam.
The Druid shrines are rent and shattered;
The Papal sovereignty hath found a tomb—
But the pure truth of Christ shall rear its head,
Thron'd on the rock of time—with the Eternal wed!
216
God lives upon the clouds, and on a throne
Where thunder and the lightning cannot go.
The cataract he binds; the storms kneel down
Before him; and the roaring earthquakes know
His presence. All things that are here below
Acknowledge him—trees—birds—the grass, the flowers!
The mountain-rivers from his footstool flow;
And he controuls the stars among their bowers;
And guides the count of time, and legislates its hours!
Where thunder and the lightning cannot go.
The cataract he binds; the storms kneel down
Before him; and the roaring earthquakes know
His presence. All things that are here below
Acknowledge him—trees—birds—the grass, the flowers!
The mountain-rivers from his footstool flow;
And he controuls the stars among their bowers;
And guides the count of time, and legislates its hours!
Then let us never fear that he will bear
The infidel to desecreate his shrine.
O, never shall the reeking Atheist dare
Tread in the courts of God, which are divine.
Truth, justice, heaven, religion all combine
To guard the sacred altar; and the dead
Would start from out their graves in saintly line,
And wield their flaming swords above their head,
To drive away the fiends that stain'd their charnel-bed.
The infidel to desecreate his shrine.
O, never shall the reeking Atheist dare
Tread in the courts of God, which are divine.
Truth, justice, heaven, religion all combine
To guard the sacred altar; and the dead
Would start from out their graves in saintly line,
And wield their flaming swords above their head,
To drive away the fiends that stain'd their charnel-bed.
Live on, live on, ye holy priests of God,
Teachers and benefactors of your race!
The grass is fresh upon the sacred sod
Of those who died as martyrs to efface
The sins of ages, and their fatal trace.
Cranmers and Latimers are still with you:
Ye are the pillars of the land, the grave
Of evil times; and on your churches' brow
The halo still remains that Christ left here below.
Teachers and benefactors of your race!
The grass is fresh upon the sacred sod
Of those who died as martyrs to efface
The sins of ages, and their fatal trace.
Cranmers and Latimers are still with you:
Ye are the pillars of the land, the grave
Of evil times; and on your churches' brow
The halo still remains that Christ left here below.
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