AN ELEGY ON A PILE of SACRED RUINS

In a lone VILLA, the once-lov'd Retreat, Where, cloy'd with Crouds, Wealth sought the silvan Shade; Near the fall'n Rubbish of some rural Seat, A ruin'd TEMPLE tow'rs its tott'ring Head.

The Moss-grown Walls, high pil'd in Gothic Pride, Stand, Time-defac'd with many a wide-rent Flaw; Nor fails the Prospect view'd on every Side, T'imprint the musing Mind with solemn Awe.

Sadly sequester'd, 'mid the dreary Waste, A Row of blasted Yew Trees gloom around; Redoubling Terror, and the Peasant's Haste, That treads perforce the long-untrodden Ground.

Soon as cool Ev'ning clos'd the Sun-scorch'd Day, I left the laughing Throng in thoughtful Mood; And, where the sacred Scene before me lay, Thus sigh'd, in aw'd Attention as I stood:

"Ah me! that hoary Time's all-changing Pow'r, Should this proud Dome, with stealing Pace, pervade; Where erst Devotion, at th'inraptur'd Hour, Thro' Faith's fix'd Glass her promis'd Bliss survey'd.

Ah pitying Change! the swift-wing'd Hours have brought, To blast the Beauty of devoted Stones; Which once industrious the first Founder wrought; A shrin'd Sepulchre to his honour'd Bones!

Hence now no more shall pious Pray'r ascend, Nor Sigh repentant from the guilt-gnaw'd Breast; RELIGION here her solemn Rites shall end, Nor more th' intruding Spade this Mould molest.

Hence now no more the sadd'ning Death-Bell's Note, Shall knell th' Alarum from this shatter'd Spire; Nor Song harmonious swell the thrilling Throat, With praiseful Tribute from th' adoring Choir.

Where warbled Melody, harsh Ravens brood, And dusky Bats that shun the lengthen'd Light; And Eloquence, whence the rais'd Rostrum stood, Has ceas'd her Charms, and soar'd her banish'd Flight.

Still Silence reigns where once the social Croud Responsive chaunted to the lauding Lay; Save when the solitary Owl screams loud, Or thro' the dun Ile wings her flutter'd Way.

This labour'd Font mov'd from its marble Base; (Where once weak Nature lav'd her spotted Stain, Tho' lower now, still stands a needed Vase, Whence chatt'ring Sparrows sip the roof-fall'n Rain.

This high-arch'd Altar, from the rais'd Ascent, Rears, awf'ly ruinous, its hallow'd Head; Whence the swift Spider, on wish'd Prey intent, Now sports her, salient, on the self-spun Thread.

Th' Angelic Host, in glittering Gold array'd, Fictitious colour'd on its pannel'd Oak, Amid the Triumph ranc'rous Time has made, 'Scapes not the Tyrant's sacreligious Stroke.

This Iron Door, fast wedg'd with ranking Rust, Scarce creaks an Entrance to the vaulted Cave: Where, wrapt in Lead, the more ennobled Dust Of MAMMON's Vot'ries found a peaceful Grave.

A shad'wy Pre-eminence yet remains In this lone Mansion of illustrious Dead; Tho' Death, regardless of their wide Demesnes, Urg'd the shun'd Summons with impartial Dread.

This mould'ring Pillar, on its sable Base, Supports a Mon'ment of superior Art; Time-unadorn'd from ev'ry finish'd Grace, Industrious Elegance had deign'd t'impart.

Ah what avails it! though ambitious rear'd, T' aggrandize some honour'd Heroe's Fame; Where martial Weapons pompously appear'd, And sculptur'd Sorrow wept the Warrior's Name.

Like all the Pageantry of earth-born Pride, Like Night-still'd Dew-drops at the solar Ray, 'T hath shrunk oblivious, and on ev'ry Side, Nods totter'd Ruin from its pillar'd Stay.

Vain are the Trophies of a Fun'ral Pile; The motto'd Monument, or gilded Bust: Fame's flatt'ring Tale, deep grav'd in golden Stile, Time shall erase, and moulder into Dust.

Devouring Time! thou immaterial Space! That swall'west moving what thy Motion breeds; Whate'er of visible the Eye can trace, Or soon, or late, thy destin'd Prey succeeds.

The sleecy Moments from thy fruitful Womb, Tho' teem'd unnum'rous, short liv'd Victims fall; Alike the rock-reard Tow'r, and trophied Tomb, Meet Dissolution at thy crumbling Call.

Thrice happy he! in calm Contentment's Dale, Far from Ambition, and Pride's noxious Noise; That peacef'lly journ'ying thro' Life's varied Vale, Ne'er war'd thy Worth on empty air-blown Toys.

Not the wish'd Wreath of popular Applause, Nor all the Joys precarious Wealth e'er lent, Afford so pleasing, so serene a Pause, As one reflected Hour in VIRTUE spent.

The tort'ring Rack, the Faggot's fiercest Rage; Nor all the Engines CRUELTY can devise, Are half so horr'ble as time-wasted Age, When grim DEATH's Terrors meet th' enfeebled Eyes.

Thou Stage invisible! we all must tread; Thy ever-varying Scenes anon shall end; When, awf'ly rousing the long-slumber'd Dead, Th' ALL-RIGHTEOUS JUDGE, GREAT JESU shall descend.

Him comp'nying from th' empyreal Throne, A Choir celestial shall in Pomp surround: The Thoughts secreted of all Hearts be known; And Thou, in vast Eternity be drown'd.

On that Day, joyous from their atom'd Tomb, The once-fam'd Founders of this Dome shall rise: Their dust-blent Bodies from Earth's teeming Womb, Shall gain, re-animate the blissful Skies.