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NETLEY ABBEY:

An ELEGY.

A HALCYON calm has lull'd the watery

plain,

The unmoving canvass flags beside the mast, The gliding bark scarce cleaves the unruffled

main,

Though fond impatience bids each zephyr haste.

Such stillness yields the general hour of rest, Such peaceful waftage to the saint is given, When, from life's tumults hastening to be blest,

He meets the smile of unoffended* Heaven!

* The close of this stanza will be found contradictory to the doctrines of Holy Writ respecting the state and character of mankind. See Romans iii, 23, and v, 12; John i, 10; and numerous other point-blank passages. This remark is not to be understood as invidious, but

Now light up-springs the breeze, the sails unfold,

The ready crew the favouring gale improve, The sun-bright current flames with waving gold,

And each broad shore and forest seems to

move.

I bail at last these shades, this well-known wood,

That skirts with verdant slope the barren

strand,

Where NETLEY's ruins, bordering on the

flood,

Forlorn in melancholy greatness stand.

How changed, alas! from that revered abode, Graced by proud majesty in ancient days, When monks recluse these sacred pavements trod,

And taught the unlettered world its MAKER'S praise!

as made with a conscientious regard to the importance of right sentiments on the most momentous of all topics.

Now sunk, deserted, and with weeds o'er

grown,

You prostrafe walls their harder fate bewail; Low on the ground their topmost spires are thrown,

Once friendly marks to guide the wandering sail.

The ivy now with rude luxuriance bends Its tangled foliage through the cloistered space,

O'er the green window's mouldering height ascends,

And fondly clasps it with a last embrace.

Where burn the gorgeous altar's lasting fires?
Where frowns the dreadful sanctuary now?
No more religion's awful flame aspires!
No more the asylum guards the fated brow!

No more shall Charity, with sparkling eyes, And smiles of welcome, wide unfold the door, Where Pity, listening still to Nature's cries, Befriends the wretched, and relieves the poor!

G

No more these hoary wilds, these darkening

groves,

To vocal bands return the note of praise, Whose chiefs, (as slow the long procession moves,)

On the rear'd cross with adoration gaze!

And while, to neighbouring waves, the unwonted show,

Each parting bough and opening glade reveals,

The awe-struck sailor checks the hastening

prow,

Suspends his oar, and wonders what he feels.

Thus musing, oft I pace the moss-grown aisle, Each low-brow'd vault, each dark recess explore;

While the bleak wind howls through the shatter'd pile,

Or wave hoarse-murmuring breaks along the shore.

No other sounds amid these arches heard,
The death-like silence of their gloom molest,

Be

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