Dim Abbey! 'neath thine arch the shadowy past
O'ersweeps our spirits, like the banyan tree,
Till living men, as reeds before the blast,
Are bowed and shaken. Who may speak to thee,
Thou hoary guardian of the illustrious dead,
With unchilled bosom or a chainless tread?
Thou breath'st no sound, no word of utterance free,
Save now and then a trembling chant from those,
Whose Sabbath worship wakes amid thy deep repose.
For thou the pulseless and the mute hast set,
As teachers of a world they loved too well,
And made thy lettered aisles an alphabet,
Where wealth and power their littleness may spell,
And go their way the wiser, if they will;
Yea, even thy chisel's art, thy carver's skill,
Thy tracery, like the spider's film-wrought cell,
But deeper grave the lessons of the dead,
Their bones beneath our feet, thy dome above our head.
A throng is at thy gates. With lofty head
The unslumbering city claims to have her will,
She strikes her gong, and with a ceaseless tread
Circleth thy time-scathed walls. But stern and still,
Thou bear'st the chafing of her mighty tide,
In silence brooding o'er thy secret pride,
The moveless soldiers of thy citadel;
Yet wide to Heaven thy trusting arms dost spread,
Thine only watch-word, God! God and the sacred dead!
London, Monday, Oct. 19, 1840.
