'T is odd, but true,- last war the News abounded More with these dinners than the kill'd or wounded;-As thus: 'On Thursday there was a grand dinner;
Present, Lords A. B. C.'- Earls, dukes, by name Announced with no less pomp than victory's winner:
Then underneath, and in the very same Column; date, 'Falmouth. There has lately been here The Slap-dash regiment, so well known to fame, Whose loss in the late action we regret:
The vacancies are fill'd up- see Gazette.'
To Norman Abbey whirl'd the noble pair,-An old, old monastery once, and now Still older mansion; of a rich and rare Mix'd Gothic, such as artists all allow Few specimens yet left us can compare Withal: it lies perhaps a little low, Because the monks preferr'd a hill behind, To shelter their devotion from the wind.
It stood embosom'd in a happy valley, Crown'd by high woodlands, where the Druid oak Stood like Caractacus in act to rally His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thunderstroke;
And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally The dappled foresters- as day awoke, The branching stag swept down with all his herd, To quaff a brook which murmur'd like a bird.
Before the mansion lay a lucid lake, Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed By a river, which its soften'd way did take In currents through the calmer water spread Around: the wildfowl nestled in the brake And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed:
The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood With their green faces fix'd upon the flood.
Its outlet dash'd into a deep cascade, Sparkling with foam, until again subsiding, Its shriller echoes- like an infant made Quiet- sank into softer ripples, gliding Into a rivulet; and thus allay'd, Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hiding Its windings through the woods; now clear, now blue, According as the skies their shadows threw.
A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile (While yet the church was Rome's) stood half apart In a grand arch, which once screen'd many an aisle.
These last had disappear'd- a loss to art:
The first yet frown'd superbly o'er the soil, And kindled feelings in the roughest heart, Which mourn'd the power of time's or tempest's march, In gazing on that venerable arch.
Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone;
But these had fallen, not when the friars fell, But in the war which struck Charles from his throne, When each house was a fortalice, as tell The annals of full many a line undone,-The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain For those who knew not to resign or reign.
But in a higher niche, alone, but crowned, The Virgin Mother of the God-born Child, With her Son in her blessed arms, look'd round, Spared by some chance when all beside was spoil'd;
She made the earth below seem holy ground.
This may be superstition, weak or wild, But even the faintest relics of a shrine Of any worship wake some thoughts divine.
A mighty window, hollow in the centre, Shorn of its glass of thousand colourings, Through which the deepen'd glories once could enter, Streaming from off the sun like seraph's wings, Now yawns all desolate: now loud, now fainter, The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sings The owl his anthem, where the silenced quire Lie with their hallelujahs quench'd like fire.
But in the noontide of the moon, and when The wind is winged from one point of heaven, There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then Is musical- a dying accent driven Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks again.
Some deem it but the distant echo given Back to the night wind by the waterfall, And harmonised by the old choral wall:
Others, that some original shape, or form Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power (Though less than that of Memnon's statue, warm In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fix'd hour)
To this grey ruin, with a voice to charm.
Sad, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower;
The cause I know not, nor can solve; but such The fact:- I 've heard it- once perhaps too much.
Amidst the court a Gothic fountain play'd, Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings quaint-Strange faces, like to men in masquerade, And here perhaps a monster, there a saint:
The spring gush'd through grim mouths of granite made, And sparkled into basins, where it spent Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles, Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles.
The mansion's self was vast and venerable, With more of the monastic than has been Elsewhere preserved: the cloisters still were stable, The cells, too, and refectory, I ween:
An exquisite small chapel had been able, Still unimpair'd, to decorate the scene;
The rest had been reform'd, replaced, or sunk, And spoke more of the baron than the monk.
Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, join'd By no quite lawful marriage of the arts, Might shock a connoisseur; but when combined, Form'd a whole which, irregular in parts, Yet left a grand impression on the mind, At least of those whose eyes are in their hearts:
We gaze upon a giant for his stature, Nor judge at first if all be true to nature.
Steel barons, molten the next generation To silken rows of gay and garter'd earls, Glanced from the walls in goodly preservation;
And Lady Marys blooming into girls, With fair long locks, had also kept their station;
And countesses mature in robes and pearls:
Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely, Whose drapery hints we may admire them freely.
Judges in very formidable ermine Were there, with brows that did not much invite The accused to think their lordships would determine His cause by leaning much from might to right:
Bishops, who had not left a single sermon:
Attorneys-general, awful to the sight, As hinting more (unless our judgments warp us)
Of the 'Star Chamber' than of 'Habeas Corpus.'
Generals, some all in armour, of the old And iron time, ere lead had ta'en the lead;
Others in wigs of Marlborough's martial fold, Huger than twelve of our degenerate breed:
Lordlings, with staves of white or keys of gold:
Nimrods, whose canvass scarce contain'd the steed;
