J827.J November Walk. 353 



Which evening spread her mantle o'er, 

 Till cliff and crag were seen no more ; 

 Though indistinct, the eye might mark 

 Their shadowy outlines, huge and dark. 

 On the wind-beaten heights alone 

 (Methinks they're Nature's proudest throne) 

 Oft do I love to linger long, 

 And weave my wild thoughts into song. 

 But, turning now my steps again, 

 I sought once more the lowland plain ; 

 Till where the ruined abbey gray 

 In scattered fragments round me lay 

 Where now the owl hath built her bower 

 O'er prostrate shrine and broken tower. 

 I paused to muse on times gone by, 

 And pay the tributary sigh. 



Ye roofless halls and ruined fanes, 

 Ah ! what of all your pride remains ? 

 Fair monuments of matchless art, 

 And home of many a gentle heart ! 

 Though all decayed and empty now, 

 Your pomp be in the dust laid low, 

 To moulder o'er the bones of those, 

 To crown whose fame your glories rose 

 By deepest interests once entwined 

 With feelings of the human mind 

 From what far different cause than now, 

 Did all your wide attractions flow ! 

 The aged peasant, weak and worn, 

 On his hard pallet stretched forlorn, 

 His weary days of labour o'er, 

 Sped his last message to your door ; 

 Oft came, perchance, the village maid 

 To seek some holy father's aid, 

 (Her pale cheek wet with many a tear), 

 To bless a dying parent's bier ; 

 The baron proud, from castle tall, 

 And dying knight in feudal hall, 

 As anxious looked to yonder shrine, 

 For comfort and for aid divine. 

 Then oft, on many a solemn day, 

 Wound through these aisles the dark array 

 Of funeral pomp while every tongue 

 Of the full choir the death-psalm sung ; 

 And through these vaulted roofs the knell 

 Was pealing from the deep-toned bell, 

 As passed the long procession slow, 

 To lay departed greatness low. 

 And, 'midst the stillness of the night, 

 Oft as some high and holy rite 

 Bade slumber from each pillow fly, 

 What pious voices hymned the sky ! 

 And many a knee the pavement pressed, 

 While saints, by many a prayer addressed, 

 Seemed from each silent niche to bend, 

 And to the vot'ry's cry attend. 

 And when the Sabbath, calm and bright, 

 Shone on a world of joy and light, 

 How sweet the music of the bells 

 Resounded through the summer dells ! 

 M.M. New Series.- VoL.III. No. 16. 2Z 



