Of Warriors, Monks, and Dames the cloister'd tomb,
Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide,
2.
Hail to thy pile! more honour'd in thy fall,
Than modern mansions, in their pillar'd state;
Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall,
Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate.
3.
No mail-clad Serfs,[1] obedient to their Lord,
In grim array, the crimson cross[2] demand;
Or gay assemble round the festive board,
Their chiefs retainers, an immortal band.
4.
Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye
Retrace their progress, through the lapse of time;
Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die,
A votive pilgrim, in Judea's clime.
5.
But not from thee, dark pile! departs the Chief;
His feudal realm in other regions lay:
In thee the wounded conscience courts relief,
Retiring from the garish blaze of day.