Читать книгу The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 17, No. 480, March 12, 1831 - Various - Страница 3

I am no pilgrim unto Becket's shrine,

To kneel with fervour on his knee-worn grave,

And with my tears his sainted ashes lave,

Yet feel devotion rise no less divine—

As rapt I gaze from Harbledown's decline

And view the rev'rend temple where was shed

That pamper'd prelate's blood—his marble bed

Midst pillar'd pomp, where rainbow windows shine;

Where bent the 1anointed of a nation's throne

And brooked the lashes of the church's ire;

And where, as yesterday, with soul of fire,

Transcendent Byron view'd the hallow'd stone.

Sure Chaucer's pilgrims, on this crowning height,

Repress'd their mirth, and kindled at the sight.

Couch'd in the bosom of a bounteous vale,

The ancient city, to the enamour'd sight,

Gleams like a vision of the fairy night,

Or Be-ulah, in Banyan's holy tale.

The silvery clouds that o'er the valley sail

Dim not the sinking sun, whose lustre fires

The old cathedral and its gorgeous spires,

The ruin'd abbey, garlanded and pale

The vesper choristers in each lone wood

Chant to the peeping moon their serenade;

Now creeps the far-off forest into shade,

And twilight comes o'er heath, and field, and flood.

Oh! had I genius now the task to try,

My picture should Italian Claude's outvie!