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| GLORY and boast of Avalon’s fair vale, | |
| How beautiful thy ancient turrets rose! | |
| Fancy yet sees them, in the sunshine pale, | |
| Gleaming, or, more majestic in repose, | |
| When, west-away the crimson landscape glows, | 5 |
| Casting their shadows on the waters wide. | |
| How sweet the sounds, that, at still daylight’s close, | |
| Came blended with the airs of eventide, | |
| When through the glimmering aisle faint “Misereres” died. | |
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| But all is silent now! silent the bell, | 10 |
| That, heard from yonder ivied turret high, | |
| Warned the cowled brother from his midnight cell; | |
| Silent the vesper-chant, the litany | |
| Responsive to the organ!—scattered lie | |
| The wrecks of the proud pile, mid arches gray, | 15 |
| Whilst hollow winds through mantling ivy sigh! | |
| And even the mouldering shrine is rent away, | |
| Where in his warrior weeds the British Arthur lay. | |
| |
| Now look upon the sister fane of Wells! | |
| It lifts its forehead in the summer air; | 20 |
| Sweet o’er the champaign sound its sabbath bells; | |
| Its roof rolls back the chant, or voice of prayer. | |
| Anxious we ask, Will Heaven that temple spare, | |
| Or mortal tempest sweep it from its state? | |
| O, say, shall time revere the fabric fair, | 25 |
| Or shall it meet, in distant years, thy fate, | |
| Shattered, proud pile, like thee, and left as desolate? | |
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| No! to subdue or elevate the soul, | |
| Our best, our purest feelings to refine, | |
| Still shall the solemn diapasons roll | 30 |
| Through that high fane! still hues reflected shine | |
| From the tall windows on the sculptured shrine, | |
| Tingeing the pavement! for He shall afford, | |
| He who directs the storm, his aid divine, | |
| Because its Sion has not left thy word, | 35 |
| Nor sought for other guide than thee, Almighty Lord! | |
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