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No masks, no festal scenes await thee there,
No sprightly song, or softly-warbled air,

But tuneless hymns, by hoarse harsh voices sung,
Through the long aisles, and gloomy gall'ries rung;
And e'er the morn, the first sad morn arose,
Domestic outrage broke thy short repose.-
Unhappy princess! call'd by ruthless fate
To rule an iron race, a factious state,
A ruffian tribe, that ask'd a martial lord,
And knew no sceptre but the brandish'd sword.

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
Monastery; part of whose scite is converted into a
Bowling Green, and a Cockpit.

As through old Austin's fane I stray,
And through his ravag'd groves;
Companion of my pensive way,
The fairy Fancy roves.

She waves her magic wand, again
His ancient pomp recalls;

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
My ravish'd senses dwell;
Oh curse on yon unhallow'd noise
That breaks the fairy spell!

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,
Or pillar massy proof.

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
Upholds the tott'ring walls,

Thus robb'd of fancy's elfin joys,

I bade the fane farewell :

And curs'd again th' unhallow'd noise
That broke the fairy spell.

THE SISTERS.

Written at Reculver.

By the white margin of the tide,
Lone wand'rer as I stray,

How free from care, how tranquil glide
My morning hours away!

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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,-
Eugenio by my side,-

At length my listless limbs I stretch,
And watch th' approaching tide:

And sometimes by the winding shore
I wander all alone;

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,
The favouring Muse will deign to be
Companion of my way:

And, oft regardless of the shore,
She turns my wand'ring eyes,
To where, yon brown cliff peering o'er
The Sister spires arise.

Ye Sisters then, alas the while!

A pitying tear I pay;

To weep your venerable pile
Now hast'ning to decay:

For ruin,-ill betide the deed,-—
Usurps each mould'ring stone;
And hastes, with unobstructed speed,
To claim ye for his own.

But oh!-nor let me plead in vain,—
Th' unhallow'd deed forbear;
Ye winds respect the holy fane,
And you, ye wild waves spare!

But yet if neither wind nor wave
Respect the tott'ring wall;

O son of commerce haste and save
The sea-mark from its fall!

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
Thy good ship dock'd in sand;
And all thy stores of future gold
Bestrew the length'ning strand.

But, oh! to winds untaught to hear
I pour the fruitless lay,

To waves unheedful of my pray'r,
And men more rude than they.

Ye Sister spires! though,-lasting shame!-
Your ruins strew the plain;
To blot the memory of your fame

Oblivion strives in vain.

For that to latest time consign'd,
Shall live, shall flourish long;
Your fame in Keate's soft tale enshrin'd,
And Stella's moral song.

And aye perhaps, if right I ween,

This little lay shall tell

To future times, ye once have been :

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See Keate's "Sketches from Nature;" and Mr. Dun

combe's "History of Reculver and Herne.”

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