AN ELEGY WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS OF AN ABBEY. BY MR. JERNINGHAM. WHERE sighs the zephyr to you lonely tree, A solemn grove its leafy mantle spread: Where bend you mouldering turrets o'er the sea, A venerable dome once rear'd its head. The solemn grove, the venerable dome, Were erst frequented by a numerous train, Ev'n chaste as they who Dian's mountain roam, But not subjected to her gentle reign: Far other Goddess did this train obey, Far other temples, other altars rais'd, Far other meaning breath'd their choral lay, Far other incense on their altars blaz'd: Veil'd Superstition wak'd her magic sound, Bad Albion's sons sorsake the splendid court, Forsake Amusement's variegated round, And to her sable standard here resort: Alas! obsequious to her stern command, A sullen-pensive brotherhood they came, Refus'd to trace the paths by Nature plann'd, And raz'd from Glory's page their ancient name. Nor these alone were found incloister'd here, Here also dwelt the simple-minded swain, Who, wrapt in sloth, dream'd out the lazy year, While Industry sat weeping on the plain! The many temples rising fair to view, Which towering Superstition call'd her own, With hand unerring radiant Truth o'erthrew, And snatch'd th' impostor from her tinsell'd throne. On yon dust-levell'd spire the crafty maid, With indignation brooding in her breast, Sits gloomily. — Her votaries all are fled, Her lamps extinguish'd, and her rites suppress'd: Within her hand a vacant string she holds, That once connected many a hallow'd bead: The blotted scroll the other hand unfolds, Contain'd the maxims of her slighted creed. Couch'd at her feet, behold a mouldering shrine, (Of various relics once the dread abode) Where runs the spider o'er his treacherous line, Where lurks the beetle, and the loathso me toad: On Darkness' wing now sails the midnight hour, When for the grateful sound of choral prayer, The shrieking owl from you disparted tower, With notes of horror wakes her trembling ear. Of human grandeur mark the fleeting day, How frail each purpose, and each wish how vain! The strong-built domes, the cloister'd fanes decay, And ruin hovers round the desert scene. The path that leads to yonder shatter'd pile Is now perplex'd with many a sordid brier: No crowd is seen within the sacred isle, The Sabbath mourns its long-deserted choir. The golden crozier blended with the dust In horrid folds the serpent clasps around: The powerful image, and the sainted bust, Desam'd, unhallow'd, press the weedy ground. Not distant far, her gold encircled tower Th' inviolable dame majestic rear'd, On whose dread altar breath'd some hidden power, By Terror guarded, and by kings rever'd: To which asylum ev'n th' assassin came, (His hand audacious still imbru'd with gore) The boon of full impunity to claim, While feeble Justice wept her baffled lore. So Truth at once dissolv'd the mental chain, And banish'd Error from th' enlighten'd shore; So clos'd at length the busy-acted scene, The curtain dropp'd, and Folly's mask was o'er. The gladsome Ceres rais'd her drooping head, (While yellow harvests gilt the smiling plain) Beheld a youthful band around her spread, With sickles arm'd to reap the bearded grain. The warrior then beneath the trailing vest, The peaceful cessock, or the drowsy cowl, No longer quench'd the flame within his breast, Or lull'd the purpose of his daring soul: But rush'd undaunted to the doubtful war, Pursu'd where Glory led the radiant way, Till Neptune rising on his coral car, Resign'd his watry world to Britain's sway. The virgin fair by venal guardians doom'd, By error prompted, or subdu'd by force, No more in cloisters drear their days consum'd: Like flow'rets strew'd around the senseless corse. Triumphant Hymen hail'd the blissful hour, And saw a white-rob'd social train approach, For whom the Pleasures dress'd the happy bower, And scatter'd roses o'er the destin'd couch. Still other blessings from this change appear'd; No injur'd family did then behold On loitering monks its native wealth conferr'd, Nor spacious altars cover'd with its gold. Full many trod that crooked path to Fame, Yet from her hand receiv'd no lasting meed, She from her annals rends their fading name, And gives to Infamy the worthless deed: But Vengeance some pursu'd with dire disgrace, Pursu'd beyond the circle of its sphere, Even to the cementery's dark recess, Nor spar'd them sleeping on the peaceful bier. Beside the spreading of that sombrous yew, Where yawns with hideous chasm the vaulted cave, Presenting to the fix'd astonish'd view The profanation of a rifled grave: The large-endowing Rufus lay inurn'd, With many a sculputur'd image on his shrine, That smit with sorrow o'er his ashes mourn'd, The Sister-Graces, and the tuneful Nine. Imprinted on Tradition's storied leaf Is found (to this sepulchral spot confin'd) A terror-breathing tale that wins belief, And oft repeated by the neighb'ring hind! From where yon mountain shades the dreary plain, Attracted by the scent of human blood, A troop of wolves voracious scour'd amain, And at this charnel-vault requir'd their food. When, horrid to relate! they burst the tomb, And swift descending to the deepest shade, Up-tore the shrowded tenant from its womb, And o'er the mangled corse relentless prey'd. The paly stars with dim reluctant light, Like tapers glimmer'd on their orgies foul, While gliding spectres scream'd with wild affright, Re-echo'd loud by their tremendous howl! Ah! what avail'd the solemn-moving hearse? The sable mantled cars, the funeral throng? Grav'd on his monument the soothing verse? The priests, the torches, and the choral song? Misjudging wretch! while thou with hand profuse Thy treasures on this mansion didst entail, And pour down riches on the vow'd recluse, Thine orphan babes partook a scanty meal. Thy widow'd fair, her cheek bedew'd with tears, Approach'd with suppliant knee the cloister-gate, There ost disclos'd in vain her poignant cares, Returning still to weep her hapless fate.