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WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

"But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloisters pale,
And love the high-embowèd roof,
With antique pillars massy-proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light.’

MILTON.

The stately Thames rolls on his silver tide
By many a wave-worn wharf and jutting quay,
While laden ships pass by in kingly pride,
And bear their costly cargoes to the sea.

The mighty city's many arteries

Throb with the surging stream of human life,
The mingled sounds of many voices rise,
The hum of busy never-ending strife.

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.

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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,
As slow the pallid winter's day declines,
And dimly through the crimson shaded pane
The mellow light in dying radiance shines.

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
Art's varied forms in wild profusion spread,

And muse on the magnificence of old,

The vast memorials of the mighty dead.

The wonder-ravished eye may fondly trace
Fresh loveliness adorning every part,
Each feature with its own peculiar grace,
The rich complexity of Gothic art.

The dim perspective of the mighty pile,

The floor inlaid with monumental brass,
The high pitched roof, the many pillared aisle,
The checquered blazon of the storied glass,

The fretted vaulting, intricately crossed,
Re-echoing the swelling organ's roll,
The endless beauties, in the distance lost,

Combine in one harmonious perfect whole.

Within the precincts of this hallowed ground
Are buried England's bravest and her best,
The countless monuments that rise around

Shew where illustrious bones are laid to rest.

Here lie the hands that held the poet's pen,
Hearts that with raptures high were wont to thrill,
Tongues that had power to move the minds of men,
And bend attentive nations to their will.

Some born to greatness, some who all alone
Have trod the long and steep ascent to fame,
Others who sleep forgotten and unknown,
Commemorated only by a name.

Beneath this lettered marble Chaucer lies,
To him must everlasting praise belong,
Who taught a crude unpolished tongue to rise
To lofty unattempted realms of song.

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In
dim shrine repose a monarch's bones,
Who in the bloom of youth resigned his breath,
Above, a canopy of carven stones,

Below, the mouldering dust, the dust of Death!

He came in princely pride, with hopeful tread,
Of life's long year he only felt the spring,
The crown was placed upon his youthful head
He passed from out the sacred doors-a king.

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,
And piled a sculptured tomb above his head,
For him life's pomp and pageant all were o'er,
The happy vision of his youth had fled.

So runs the round of life. So royal state
And fame and learning crumble to decay,
And kings and peasants, fellow slaves of fate,
Live out their portioned lives and pass away.

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
The dark deformity of sin can hide?

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
That ought of this magnificence is vain,
Nor doubt that riches in true worship brought
Will meet a recompense of surer gain.

The mind flies back to those far days of eld
When unenlightened faith had gone astray,
E'er truth the mists of error had dispelled,

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,
When foul abuse prevailed, and deep disgrace,
And cloistered leisure frittered time away,
And avarice spread and luxury grew apace.

And then a greedy king's relentless power
Cropt the exuberance of monkish pride,
Laid in the dust full many a time-worn tower,
And scattered all its inmates far and wide.

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,
The gilded shrines are ruined and decayed,
The ivy clings around the mouldered walls,
And lends their feeble strength its feebler aid.

But this fair pile survives, and even now
Stands firmly as it stood in days of yore,
Reproachfully its glories seem to show

The grace of temples that are now no more.

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