AN
ELEGY
ON
A
PILE
OF
RUINS
.
BY
J.
CUNNINGHAM
.
IN
the
full
prospect
yonder
hill
commands
O'er
forests
,
fields
,
and
vernal-coated
plains
;
The
vestige
of
an
ancient
abbey
stands
,
Close
by
a
ruin'd
castle's
rude
remains
.
Half
buried
,
there
,
lie
many
a
broken
bust
,
And
obelisk
,
and
urn
,
o'erthrown
by
time
;
And
many
a
cherub
,
here
,
descends
in
dust
From
the
rent
roof
,
and
portico
sublime
.
The
rivulets
,
oft
frighted
at
the
sound
Of
fragments
tumbling
from
the
towers
on
high
,
Plunge
to
their
source
in
secret
caves
profound
,
Leaving
their
banks
and
pebbly
bottoms
dry
.
Where
reverend
shrines
in
gothic
grandeur
stood
,
The
nettle
,
or
the
noxious
night-shade
,
spreads
;
And
ashlings
,
wafted
from
the
neighbouring
wood
,
Thro'
the
worn
turrets
wave
their
trembling
heads
.
There
Contemplation
,
to
the
crowd
unknown
,
Her
attitude
compos'd
,
and
aspect
sweet
!
Sits
musing
on
a
monumental
stone
,
And
points
to
the
memento
at
her
feet
.
Soon
as
sage
evening
check'd
day's
sunny
pride
,
I
left
the
mantling
shade
,
in
moral
mood
;
And
,
seated
by
the
maid's
sequester'd
side
,
Thus
sigh'd
,
the
mouldering
ruins
as
I
view'd
.
Inexorably
calm
,
with
silent
pace
,
Here
Time
has
pass'd
—
What
ruin
marks
his
way
!
This
pile
,
now
crumbling
o'er
its
hallow'd
base
,
Turn'd
not
his
step
,
nor
could
his
course
delay
.
Religion
rais'd
her
supplicating
eyes
In
vain
;
and
Melody
,
her
song
sublime
:
In
vain
,
Philosophy
,
with
maxims
wise
,
Would
touch
the
cold
unfeeling
heart
of
Time
.
Yet
the
hoar
tyrant
,
tho'
not
mov'd
to
spare
,
Relented
when
he
struck
its
finish'd
pride
;
And
,
partly
the
rude
ravage
to
repair
,
The
tottering
towers
with
twisted
ivy
tied
.
How
solemn
is
the
cell
o'ergrown
with
moss
,
That
terminates
the
view
yon
cloister'd
way
!
In
the
crush'd
wall
a
time-corroded
cross
,
Religion
like
,
stands
mouldering
in
decay
!
Where
the
mild
sun
,
thro'
saint-encypher'd
glass
,
Illum'd
with
mellow
light
that
brown-brow'd
isle
;
Many
rapt
hours
might
Meditation
pass
,
Slow
moving
'twixt
the
pillars
of
the
pile
!
And
Piety
,
with
mystic-meaning
beads
,
Bowing
to
saints
on
every
side
inurn'd
,
Trod
oft
the
solitary
path
,
that
leads
Where
now
the
sacred
altar
lies
o'erturn'd
!
Thro'
the
grey
grove
,
betwixt
those
withering
trees
;
'Mongst
a
rude
group
of
monuments
,
appears
A
marble-imag'd
matron
on
her
knees
,
Half
wasted
,
like
a
Niobe
in
tears
:
Low
levell'd
in
the
dust
her
darling's
laid
!
Death
pitied
not
the
pride
of
youthful
bloom
;
Nor
could
maternal
piety
dissuade
,
Or
soften
the
fell
tyrant
of
the
tomb
.
The
relicks
of
a
mitred
saint
may
rest
,
Where
,
mouldering
in
the
nich
,
his
statue
stand
Now
nameless
,
as
the
crowd
that
kiss'd
his
vest
,
And
crav'd
the
benediction
of
his
hands
.
Near
the
brown
arch
,
redoubling
yonder
gloom
,
The
bones
of
an
illustrious
chieftain
lie
;
As
trac'd
upon
the
time-unletter'd
tomb
,
The
trophies
of
a
broken
fame
imply
.
Ah
!
what
avails
,
that
o'er
the
vassal
plain
,
His
rights
and
rich
demesnes
extended
wide
!
That
honour
,
and
her
knights
,
compos'd
his
train
,
And
chivalry
stood
marshall'd
by
his
side
!
Tho'
to
the
clouds
his
castle
seem'd
to
climb
,
And
frown'd
defiance
on
the
desperate
foe
;
Tho'
deem'd
invincible
,
the
conqueror
,
Time
,
Levell'd
the
fabric
,
as
the
founder
,
low
.
Where
the
light
lyre
gave
many
a
softening
sound
,
Ravens
and
rooks
,
the
birds
of
discord
dwell
;
And
where
society
sat
sweetly
crown'd
,
Eternal
solitude
has
fix'd
her
cell
.
The
lizard
,
and
the
lazy
lurking
bat
,
Inhabit
now
,
perhaps
,
the
painted
room
,
Where
the
sage
matron
and
her
maidens
sat
,
Sweet-singing
at
the
silver-working
loom
.
The
traveller's
bewilder'd
on
a
waste
;
And
the
rude
winds
incessant
seem
to
roar
,
Where
,
in
his
groves
with
arching
arbours
grac'd
,
Young
lovers
often
sigh'd
in
days
of
yore
.
His
aqueducts
,
that
led
the
limpid
tide
To
pure
canals
,
a
crystal
cool
supply
!
In
the
deep
dust
their
barren
beauties
hide
:
Time's
thirst
,
unquenchable
,
has
drain'd
them
dry
!
Tho'
his
rich
hours
in
revelry
were
spent
With
Comus
,
and
the
laughter-loving
crew
;
And
the
sweet
brow
of
beauty
,
still
unbent
,
Brighten'd
his
fleecy
moments
as
they
flew
:
Fleet
are
the
fleecy
moments
!
fly
they
must
;
Not
to
be
stay'd
by
masque
,
or
midnight
roar
!
Nor
shall
a
pulse
,
amongst
that
mouldering
dust
,
Beat
wanton
at
the
smiles
of
beauty
more
!
Can
the
deep
statesman
,
skill'd
in
great
design
,
Protract
,
but
for
a
day
,
precarious
breath
;
Or
the
tun'd
follower
of
the
sacred
nine
,
Soothe
,
with
his
melody
,
insatiate
Death
?
No
—
tho'
the
palace
bar
her
golden
gate
,
Or
monarchs
plant
ten
thousand
guards
around
;
Unerring
,
and
unseen
,
the
shaft
of
fate
Strikes
the
devoted
victim
to
the
ground
!
What
then
avails
ambition's
wide-stretch'd
wing
,
The
schoolman's
page
,
or
pride
of
beauty's
bloom
!
The
crape-clad
hermit
,
and
the
rich-rob'd
king
,
Levell'd
,
lie
mix'd
promiscuous
in
the
tomb
.
The
Macedonian
monarch
,
wise
and
good
,
Bade
,
when
the
morning's
rosy
reign
began
,
Courtiers
should
call
,
as
round
his
couch
they
stood
,
"
Philip
!
remember
,
thou'rt
no
more
than
man
.
"
Tho'
glory
spread
thy
name
from
pole
to
pole
;
"
Tho'
thou
art
merciful
,
and
brave
,
and
just
;
"
Philip
,
reflect
,
thou'rt
posting
to
the
goal
,
"
Where
mortals
mix
in
undistinguish'd
dust
!
"
So
Saladin
,
for
arts
and
arms
renown'd
,
(
Aegypt
and
Syria's
wide
domains
subdued
)
Returning
with
imperial
triumphs
crown'd
,
Sigh'd
,
when
the
perishable
pomp
he
view'd
:
And
as
he
rode
,
high
in
his
regal
car
,
In
all
the
purple
pride
of
conquest
drest
;
Conspicuous
,
o'er
the
trophies
gain'd
in
war
,
Plac'd
,
pendent
on
a
spear
,
his
burial
vest
:
While
thus
the
herald
cried
—
"
This
son
of
power
,
"
This
Saladin
,
to
whom
the
nations
bow'd
;
"
May
,
in
the
space
of
one
revolving
hour
,
"
Boast
of
no
other
spoil
,
but
yonder
shroud
!
"
Search
where
Ambition
rag'd
,
with
rigour
steel'd
;
Where
Slaughter
,
like
the
rapid
lightning
,
ran
;
And
say
,
while
Memory
weeps
the
blood-stain'd
field
,
Where
lies
the
chief
,
and
where
the
common
man
?
Vain
are
the
pyramids
,
and
motto'd
stones
,
And
monumental
trophies
rais'd
on
high
!
For
time
confounds
them
with
the
crumbling
bones
,
That
mix'd
in
hasty
graves
unnotic'd
lie
.
Rests
not
,
beneath
the
turf
,
the
peasant's
head
,
Soft
as
the
lord's
,
beneath
the
labour'd
tomb
?
Or
sleeps
one
colder
,
in
his
close
clay
bed
,
Than
t'other
,
in
the
wide
vault's
dreary
womb
?
Hither
let
Luxury
lead
her
loose-rob'd
train
;
Here
flutter
Pride
,
on
purple
painted
wings
:
And
,
from
the
moral
prospect
,
learn
—
how
vain
The
wish
,
that
sighs
for
sublunary
things
.