| |
| BEAUTIFUL fabric! even in decay | |
| And desolation beauty still is thine: | |
| As the rich sunset of an autumn day, | |
| When gorgeous clouds in glorious hues combine | |
| To render homage to its slow decline, | 5 |
| Is more majestic in its parting hour, | |
| Even so thy mouldering, venerable shrine | |
| Possesses now a more subduing power | |
| Than in thine earlier sway with pomp and pride thy dower. | |
| |
| To voice of praise or prayer, or solemn sound | 10 |
| Of sacred music, once familiar here, | |
| Thy walls are echoless; within their bound, | |
| Once holy deemed, and to religion dear, | |
| No sound salutes the most attentive ear | |
| That tells thy former destiny; unless | 15 |
| It be when fitful breezes wandering near | |
| Wake such faint sighs as feebly might express | |
| Some unseen spirit’s woe for thy lost loveliness. | |
| |
| Or when on stormy nights the winds are high, | |
| And through thy roofless walls and arches sweep, | 20 |
| In tones more full of thrilling harmony | |
| Than art could reach, while from the neighboring deep | |
| The roar of bursting billows seems to keep | |
| Accordant measure with the tempest’s chime; | |
| O, then, at times have I, aroused from sleep, | 25 |
| Fancied that thou, even in thy proudest prime, | |
| Couldst ne’er have given birth to music more sublime. | |
| |
| But to the eye revolving years still add | |
| Fresh charms, which make thee lovelier to the view; | |
| For Nature has luxuriantly clad | 30 |
| Thy ruins, as if wishing to renew | |
| Their claim to homage from those hearts that woo | |
| Her gentle influence: with indulgent hand | |
| She has atoned for all that Time could do, | |
| Though she might not his ravages withstand; | 35 |
| And now thou art her own: her skill thy beauties planned. | |
| |
| The mantling ivy’s ever-verdant wreath | |
| She gave thee as her livery to wear: | |
| Thy wall-flowers, waving at the gentlest breath, | |
| And scattering perfume on the summer air, | 40 |
| Wooing the bee to come and labor there; | |
| The clinging moss, whose hue of sober gray | |
| Makes beautiful what else were bleak and bare,— | |
| These she has given thee as a fit array | |
| For thy declining pomp and her delightful sway. * * * * * | 45 |
| |
