WESTMINSTER ABBEY. "But let my due feet never fail MILTON. The stately Thames rolls on his silver tide The mighty city's many arteries Throb with the surging stream of human life, But here is peace. The wearied soul may Within these sacred doors a safe retreat, Leave the mad turmoil of the crowd behind, Forget the roar and hubbub of the street. find We enter. O'er the heart there steals a sense Of sacred harmony and calm repose, All trivial thoughts and cares are banished hence, And fancy's self with softened lustre glows. The shadows deepen in the ancient fane, The golden glory of the evening sun Streams through the western window's airy height, And like a fairy fabric, fancy spun, The woven tracery intercepts the light. Here wandering contemplation may behold And muse on the magnificence of old, The vast memorials of the mighty dead. The wonder-ravished eye may fondly trace The dim perspective of the mighty pile, The floor inlaid with monumental brass, The fretted vaulting, intricately crossed, Combine in one harmonious perfect whole. Within the precincts of this hallowed ground Shew where illustrious bones are laid to rest. Here lie the hands that held the poet's pen, Some born to greatness, some who all alone Beneath this lettered marble Chaucer lies, yon In Below, the mouldering dust, the dust of Death! He came in princely pride, with hopeful tread, He came again, yet not as erst he came, Not borne in glad procession through the crowd, An ice-cold hand had quenched life's fitful flame, His throne, a bier, his robe of state, a shroud. They laid him low beneath the marble floor, So runs the round of life. So royal state Eastward we turn our steps, and, passing through A low-browed arch, behold a building fair, With ancient banners hung of faded hue, And roofed with stone that seems self-poised in air. Here rest the royal Henry's shrined remains, At whose command these stately walls were built, He hoped to purge his soul from sinful stains, The red pollutions of a life of guilt. Vain hope! what costly piles of fretted stone A late repentance cannot all atone For years of crime and avarice and pride. Yet censure not the holy men of old, Who founded fanes like these with hearts sincere. Remorse ne'er wrung from them their hoarded gold, They gave it in devotion, not in fear. Let then no heart indulge the niggard thought The mind flies back to those far days of eld And plucked pale superstition's mask away. When many a noble temple, rich and fair, Was raised and dowered with a lavish hand, And oft in that dark age were centred there The wealth, the skill, the learning of the land. But time rolled on: there came an evil day, And then a greedy king's relentless power And now where once was heard the organ's tone, Where once the bells rang out their silver chime, The wild night winds make melancholy moan To columns crumbling 'neath the hand of Time. The saints have fallen from their pedestals, But this fair pile survives, and even now The grace of temples that are now no more. |