Читать книгу The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 403, December 5, 1829 - Various - Страница 6

The form of ages long gone by

Crowd thick on Fancy's wondering eye,

And wake the soul to musings high!

Where are the lights that shone of yore

Around this haunted spring?

Do they upon some distant shore

Their holy lustre fling?

It was not thus when pilgrims came

To hymn beneath the night,

And dimly gleam'd the censor's flame

When stars and streams were bright.

What art thou—since five hundred years

Have o'er thy waters roll'd;

Since clouds have wept their crystal tears

From skies of beaming gold?

Thy rills receive the tint of heaven,

Which erst illum'd thy shrine;

And sweetest birds their songs have given,

For music more divine.

Beside thee hath the maiden kept

Her vigils pale and lone;

While darkly have her ringlets swept

The chapel's sculptur'd stone;

And when the vesper-hymn was sung

Around the warrior's bier,

With cross and banner o'er him hung,

What splendour crown'd thee here!

But a cloud has fall'n upon thy fame!

The woodman laves his brow,

Where shrouded monks and vestals came

With many a sacred vow;

And bluely gleams thy sainted spring

Beneath the sunny tree;

Then let no heart its sadness bring,

When Nature is with thee.