Poetic Lucubrations Containing The Misanthrope and Other Effusions. By T. Gordon Hake |
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ELEGY,
WRITTEN IN THE RUINS
OF
THE PRIORY OF ST. PANCRAS'.
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 | Poetic Lucubrations |  |
59
ELEGY,
WRITTEN IN THE RUINS
OF
THE PRIORY OF ST. PANCRAS'.
This once magnificent structure, established by William de
Warren, first Earl of Surry, was commenced about the year
1072, and completed in 1078. So few and imperfect are its
remains, that it is impossible to form any tolerably correct
notion of its original state: it is, however, a rich remnant of
ancient grandeur.
Hist: and antiq: of Lewes.
This once magnificent structure, established by William de Warren, first Earl of Surry, was commenced about the year 1072, and completed in 1078. So few and imperfect are its remains, that it is impossible to form any tolerably correct notion of its original state: it is, however, a rich remnant of ancient grandeur.
Hist: and antiq: of Lewes.
61
I
Here will we rest, where mould'ring tow'rs proclaimThe gloomy remnant of conventual fame:
Where once arose the holy monk's retreat,
Thee, sacred muse, in solemn thought we greet.
II
Where silence slumbers and extends her reign,Calling departed grandeur her domain:
Where, as the mind some tale forgotten seeks,
The silent dust of by-gone ages speaks.
62
III
Ye falling stones, religion's former home,Resolv'd to this, where vermin scarce can roam?
Now grins the dark initials of a name,
Where hallow'd portraits spoke the friar's fame!
IV
How many a man enrich'd with classic lore,Hath trod with softest touch these sacred aisles:
How oft th' enthusiast was wont to pour,
His lonely pray'r beneath these massy piles.
V
How oft the mitred abbot here hath sat,And fram'd ambition's wild, delusive schemes,
And visionary, scann'd the laws of fate,
And truth accounted his mad, waking dreams.
63
VI
And what avails him now, his proudest boast,The vaunted lore of ancient Greece and Rome?
Did it prevent him treading Stygian coast,
Or save his body from th' o'erwhelming tomb?
VII
And where are now those golden prelacies,Which danc'd before the Abbot's greedy eyes?
And what avail them now those papacies,
Which haughty Bishops hunted as a prize?
VIII
Their mould'ring dust beneath this nightshade sleeps,Altho' whose dust, no mould'ring emblems tell,
At such a scene, how wild ambition weeps!
Can man be bound by such a pow'rless spell?
64
IX
Perhaps is mingled here some humble slave,Who by his chief's despotic anger fell:
And some proud peer, who once did sternly wave
His red-cross banner o'er the infidel.
X
When time's quick pinion hath a cent'ry ran,Who can collect the coffin from the man?
'Tis dust alike, whence springs the verdant weeds,
On which the bleating lamb contented feeds.
XI
Here once was rear'd with care the valued rose,Where now th' uncar'd for, sturdy thistle grows:
Where round the elm the ivy once would coil,
Is left a barren and deserted soil.
65
XII
Ye slimy walls, the Norman artist's boast!Now a mere Chaos of neglected state,
The sordid remnant of the Clunic host,
Which now religion scarce can venerate.
XIII
And yet ye once by pompous cpitaphWould fain perpetuate the abbots' fame!
Oh! as ye fall, how time's derisive scoff
Mocks your enfeebled, green, and tott'ring frame.
XIV
Ah! proud ambition, disappointment's slaveDoes death neglect to cool thy hottest vein?
What signifies when slumb'ring in the grave
The noisesome toil, which designates thy reign?
66
XV
But, thus it is, in vain we seek for joys,Fell disappointment, all our hopes destroys,
O! who can tell, how oft the destin'd pride
Of kings and kingdoms hath in boyhood died?
XVI
And who can tell how many a destin'd sage,Hath breath'd no more than childhood's happy age,
Or who, how many a humble hero's fall,
In valor gain'd hath pass'd unknown to all.
XVII
How many an one, with locks of silv'ry gray,Hath pass'd his life in idleness away:
How many a youth with talents rare and bright,
Hath like a meteor, vanish'd in the night.
67
XVIII
Ah! who can say how many a virtuous mindHath been unjustly censur'd by mankind:
Or who, how many an hypocrite, can say,
Hath unsuspected trod his sinful way.
XIX
Farewell ye walls! adieu thou rolling stream,Which seems to glide away like childhood's dream,
Which once was flowing in a mighty river,
But now like ye, appears condemn'd for ever!
XX
The time shall be, when not a mossy stone,Remains to tell where tow'rs once proudly rose:
Time's mighty hand great cities hath o'erthown,
And in their halls the scanty hemlock grows.
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