No masks, no festal scenes await thee there, But tuneless hymns, by hoarse harsh voices sung, This fragment is part of an unfinished poem, in which it appears to have been the writer's intention to have embodied the impressions made upon his mind during a tour in France. Verses written among the ruins of Saint Augustine's As through old Austin's fane I stray, She waves her magic wand, again And rears again his lofty fane, And builds his lordly walls: His cope-clad priests, with chaunt divine, The sacred host upraise; And girt with taper's holy shine His gorgeous altars blaze. Entranc'd in more than mortal joys Sounds as of ruffians drunk with wine Offend my sober ear; And other than of chaunt divine, Or holy hymn I hear. Sights other than of gothic grace I see, or fretted roof; And others than of storied glass, Alas! no more the well arch'd aisle Extends its lengthen'd walks; But o'er the desolated pile The giant ruin stalks. And mid rich sculpture's proudest charms The gadding ivy crawls, And scarce with all its hundred arms Thus robb'd of fancy's elfin joys, I bade the fane farewell : And curs'd again th' unhallow'd noise THE SISTERS. Written at Reculver. By the white margin of the tide, How free from care, how tranquil glide And briskly whilst from guest to guest Goes round the nut-brown ale, I listen to the sailor's jest, Or hear the woodman's tale : Or whether on the pebbly beach,- At length my listless limbs I stretch, And sometimes by the winding shore And listen to old ocean's roar, And hear the seagull's moan. And oft as by the rolling sea In thoughtful mood I stray, And, oft regardless of the shore, Ye Sisters then, alas the while! A pitying tear I pay; To weep your venerable pile For ruin,-ill betide the deed,-— But oh!-nor let me plead in vain,— But yet if neither wind nor wave O son of commerce haste and save Lest, homeward bound, thy luckless crew Attempt this dang'rous shore; And all in vain with anxious view The Sister spires explore. And thou with fruitless grief behold But, oh! to winds untaught to hear To waves unheedful of my pray'r, Ye Sister spires! though,-lasting shame!- Oblivion strives in vain. For that to latest time consign'd, And aye perhaps, if right I ween, This little lay shall tell To future times, ye once have been : See Keate's "Sketches from Nature;" and Mr. Dun combe's "History of Reculver and Herne.” |