The Ruin'd Abbey: or, the Effects of Superstition

At length fair Peace, with olive crown'd, regains Her lawful throne, and to the sacred haunts Of wood or fount the frighted Muse returns.

Happy the bard who, from his native hills, Soft musing on a summer's eve, surveys His azure stream, with pensile woods enclos'd, Or o'er the glassy surface with his friend, Or faithful fair, thro' bord'ring willows green Wasts his small frigate. Fearless he of shouts Or taunts, the rhet'ric of the wat'ry crew, That ape confusion from the realms they rule; Fearless of these; who shares the gentler voice Of peace and music; birds of sweetest song Attune from native boughs their various lay, And cheer the forest; birds of brighter plume With busy pinion skim the glitt'ring wave, And tempt the sun, ambitious to display Their several merit, while the vocal flute Or number'd verse, by female voice endear'd, Crowns his delight, and mollifies the scene.

If solitude his wand'ring steps invite To some more deep recess, (for hours there are When gay, when social, minds to Friendship's voice Or Beauty's charm her wild abodes prefer) How pleas'd he treads her venerable shades, Her solemn courts! the centre of the grove! The root-built cave, by far extended rocks Around embosom'd, how it sooths the soul! If scoop'd at first by superstitious hands The rugged cell receiv'd alone the shoals Of bigot minds, Religion dwells not here, Yet Virtue pleas'd, at intervals, retires: Yet here may Wisdom, as she walks the maze, Some serious truths collect, the rules of life, And serious truths of mightier weight than gold!

I ask not wealth; but let me hoard with care, With frugal cunning, with a niggard's art, A few fix'd principles, in early life, Ere indolence impede the search, explor'd; Then like old Latimer, when age impairs My judgment's eye, when quibbling schools attack My grounded hope, or subtler wits deride, Will I not blush to shun the vain debate, And this mine answer; "Thus, 'twas thus I thought, " My mind yet vigorous, and my soul entire; " Thus will I think, averse to listen more " To intricate discussion, prone to stray. " Perhaps my reason may but ill defend " My settled faith; my mind, with age impair'd, " Too sure its own infirmities declare. " But I am arm'd by caution, studious youth, " And early foresight: now the winds may rise, " The tempest whistle, and the billows roar; " My pinnace rides in port, despoil'd and worn, " Shatter'd by time and storms, but while it shuns " Th' inequal conflict, and declines the deep, " Sees the strong vessel fluctuate, less secure."

Thus while he strays, a thousand rural scenes Suggest instruction, and instructing please. And see betwixt the grove's extended arms An Abbey's rude remains attract thy view, Gilt by the mid-day sun: with ling'ring step Produce thine axe, (for, aiming to destroy Tree, branch, or shade, for never shall thy breast Too long deliberate) with tim'rous hand Remove th' obstructive bough; nor yet refuse, Tho' sighing, to destroy that fav'rite pine, Rais'd by thine hand, in its luxuriant prime Of beauty fair, that screens the vast remains. Aggriev'd, but constant as the Roman sire, The rigid Manlius, when his conqu'ring son Bled by a parent's voice, the cruel meed Of virtuous ardour timelessly display'd; Nor cease till, thro' the gloomy road, the pile Gleam unobstructed: thither oft' thine eye Shall sweetly wander; thence returning, sooth With pensive scenes thy philosophic mind.

These were thy haunts, thy opulent abodes, O Superstition! hence the dire disease (Balanc'd with which the fam'd Athenian pest Were a short headach, were the trivial pain Of transient indigestion) seiz'd mankind.

Long time she rag'd, and scarce a southern gale Warm'd our chill air, unloaded with the threats Of tyrant Rome; but futile all, till she, Rome's abler legate, magnify'd their pow'r, And in a thousand horrid forms attir'd.

Where then was truth to sanctify the page Of British annals? if a foe expir'd, The perjur'd monk suborn'd infernal shrieks And fiends to snatch at the departing soul With hellish emulation: if a friend, High o'er his roof exultant angels tune Their golden lyres, and waft him to the skies.

What then were vows, were oaths, were plighted faith? The sovereign's just, the subject's loyal pact, To cherish mutual good, annull'd and vain, By Roman magic, grew an idle scroll Ere the frail sanction of the wax was cold.

With thee, Plantagenet! from civil broils The land a while respir'd, and all was peace. Then Becket rose, and, impotent of mind, From regal courts with lawless fury march'd The church's blood-stain'd convicts, and forgave, Bid murd'rous priests the sov'reign frown contemn, And with unhallow'd crosier bruis'd the crown.

Yet yielded not supinely tame a prince Of Henry's virtues; learn'd, courageous, wise, Of fair ambition. Long his regal soul, Firm and erect, the peevish priest exil'd, And brav'd the fury of revengeful Rome. In vain! let one faint malady diffuse The pensive gloom which Superstition loves, And see him, dwindled to a recreant groom, Rein the proud palfrey while the priest ascends!

Was Coeur-de-Lion bless'd with whiter days? Here the cowl'd zealots with united cries Urg'd the crusade; and see! of half his stores Despoil'd the wretch whose wiser bosom chose To bless his friends, his race, his native land:

Of ten fair suns that roll'd their annual race, Not one beheld him on his vacant throne; While haughty Longchamp, 'mid his liv'ry'd files Of wanton vassals, spoil'd his faithful realm, Battling in foreign fields; collecting wide A laurel harvest for a pillag'd land.

Oh! dear-bought trophies! when a prince deserts His drooping realm to pluck the barren sprays!

When faithless John usurp'd the sully'd crown, What ample tyranny! the groaning land Deem'd earth, deem'd heav'n, its soe! Six tedious years Our helpless fathers in despair obey'd The papal interdict; and who obey'd The sov'reign plunder'd. O inglorious days! When the French tyrant, by the futile grant Of papal rescript, claim'd Britannia's throne, And durst invade: be such inglorious days Or hence forgot, or not recall'd in vain!

Scarce had the tortur'd ear, dejected, heard Rome's loud anathema but heartless, dead To ev'ry purpose, men nor wish'd to live Nor dar'd to die. The poor laborious hind Heard the dire curse, and from his trembling hand Fell the neglected crook that rul'd the plain; Thence journeying home, in ev'ry cloud he sees A vengeful angel, in whose waving scroll He reads damnation: sees its sable train Of grim attendants pencil'd by Despair!

The weary pilgrim from remoter climes By painful steps arriv'd, his home, his friends, His offspring left, to lavish on the shrine Of some far-honour'd saint his costly stores, Inverts his footstep, sickens at the sight Of the barr'd fane, and silent sheds his tear.

The wretch, whose hope by stern Oppression chas'd From ev'ry earthly bliss, still as it saw Triumphant wrong, took wing and flew to heav'n, And rested there, now mourn'd his refuge lost And wonted peace. The sacred fane was barr'd, And the lone altar, where the mourners throng'd To supplicate remission, smok'd no more; While the green weed, luxuriant round uprose. Some from their deathbed, whose delirious faith Thro' ev'ry stage of life to Rome's decrees Obsequious, humbly hop'd to die in peace, Now saw the ghastly king approach, begirt In tenfold terrors; now expiring heard The last loud clarion sound, and Heav'n's decree With unremitting vengeance bar the skies. Nor light the grief, by Superstition weigh'd, That their dishonour'd corse, shut from the verge Of hallow'd earth, or tutelary fane, Must sleep with brutes, their vassals, on the field, Unneath some path, in marle unexorcis'd! No solemn bell extort a neighbour's tear! No tongue of priest pronounce their soul secure, Nor fondest friend assure their peace obtain'd!

The priest, alas! so boundless was the ill! He, like the flock he pillag'd, pin'd forlorn; The vivid vermeil fled his fady cheek, And his big paunch, distended with the spoils Of half his flock, emaciate, groan'd beneath Superior pride and mightier lust of pow'r! 'Twas now Rome's fondest friend, whose meagre hand Told to the midnight lamp his holy beads With nice precision, felt the deeper wound, As his gull'd soul rever'd the conclave more.

Whom did the ruin spare? for wealth, for pow'r, Birth, honour, virtue, enemy, and friend, Sunk helpless, in the dreary gulf involv'd, And one capricious curse envelop'd all!

Were kings secure: in tow'ring stations born, In flatt'ry nurs'd, inur'd to scorn mankind, Or view diminish'd from their site sublime; As when a shepherd, from the lofty brow Of some proud cliff surveys his less'ning flock In snowy groups diffusive scud the vale.

A while the furious menace John return'd, And breath'd defiance loud. Alas! too soon Allegiance, sick'ning, saw its sov'reign yield An angry prey to scruples not his own. The loyal soldier, girt around with strength, Who stole from mirth and wine his blooming years, And seiz'd the fauchion, resolute to guard His sovereign's right, impalsy'd at the news, Finds the firm bias of his soul revers'd For foul desertion, drops the lifted steel, And quits Fame's noble harvest, to expire The death of monks, of surfeit and of sloth!

At length, fatigu'd with wrongs, the servile king Drain'd from his land its small remaining stores To buy remission. But could these obtain? No! resolute in wrongs the priest obdur'd, Till crawling base to Rome's deputed slave His fame, his people, and his crown, he gave. Mean monarch! slighted, brav'd, abhorr'd, before!

And now, appeas'd by delegated sway, The wily pontiff scorns not to recall His interdictions. Now the sacred doors Admit repentant multitudes, prepar'd To buy deceit; admit obsequious tribes Of satraps! princes! crawling to the shrine Of sainted villany! the pompous tomb Dazzling with gems and gold, or in a cloud Of incense wreath'd, amidst a drooping land That sigh'd for bread! 'Tis thus the Indian clove Displays its verdant leaf, its crimson flow'r, And sheds its odours, while the flocks around, Hungry and faint, the barren sands explore In vain! nor plant nor herb endears the soil, Drain'd and exhaust to swell its thirsty pores, And furnish luxury—Yet, yet in vain Britannia strove: and whether artful Rome Caress'd or curs'd her, Superstition rag'd, And blinded, fetter'd, and despoil'd, the land.

At length some murd'rous monk, with pois'nous Expell'd the life his brethren robb'd of peace.

Nor yet surceas'd with John's disastrous fate art, Pontific fury: English wealth exhaust, The sequent reign beheld the beggar'd shore Grim with Italian usurers, prepar'd To lend, for griping unexampled hire, To lend—what Rome might pillage uncontroll'd.

For now with more extensive havoc rag'd Relentless Greg'ry, with a thousand arts, And each rapacious, born to drain the world! Nor shall the Muse repeat how oft' he blew The croise's trumpet; then for sums of gold Annull'd the vow, and bade the false alarm Swell the gross hoards of Henry or his own: Nor shall she tell how pontiffs dar'd repeal The best of charters! dar'd absolve the tie If British kings, by legal oath restrain'd: Nor can she dwell on argosies of gold From Albion's realm to servile shores convey'd, Wrung from her sons, and speeded by her kings! Oh, irksome days! when wicked thrones combine With papal craft to gull their native land!

Such was our fate while Rome's director, taught Of subjects born to be their monarch's prey, To toil for monks, for gluttony to toil, For vacant gluttony; extortion, fraud, For av'rice, envy, pride, revenge, and shame! O doctrine breath'd from Stygian caves! exhal'd From inmost Erebus!—Such Henry's reign! Urging his loyal realm's reluctant hand To wield the peaceful sword, by John erewhile Forc'd from its scabbard, and with burnish'd lance Essay the savage cure, domestic war!

And now some nobler spirits chas'd the mist Of gen'ral darkness. Grosted now adorn'd The mitred wreath he wore, with Reason's sword Stagg'ring Delusion's frauds; at length beneath Rome's interdict expiring calm, resign'd No vulgar soul, that dar'd to Heav'n appeal! But, ah! this fertile glebe, this fair domain, Had well nigh ceded to the slothful hands Of monks libidinous, ere Edward's care The lavish hand of deathbed Fear restrain'd. Yet was he clear of Superstition's taint? He, too, misdeemful of his wholesome law, Ev'n he, expiring, gave his treasur'd gold To fatten monks on Salem's distant soil!

Yes, the Third Edward's breast, to papal sway So little prone, and fierce in honour's cause, Could Superstition quell! before the tow'rs Of haggard Paris, at the thunder's voice He drops the sword, and signs ignoble peace!

But still the Night, by Romish art diffus'd, Collects her clouds, and with slow pace recedes; When, by soft Bourdeau's braver queen approv'd, Bold Wickliff rose; and while the bigot pow'r Amidst her native darkness skulk'd secure, The demon vanish'd as he spread the day. So from his bosom Cacus breath'd of old The pitchy cloud, and in a night of smoke Secure, a while his recreant life sustain'd, Till fam'd Alcides, o'er his subtlest wiles Victorious, cheer'd the ravag'd nations round.

Hail, honour'd Wickliff! enterprising age! An Epicurus in the cause of truth! For 'tis not radiant suns, the jovial hours Of youthful spring, an ether all serene, Nor all the verdure of Campania's vales, Can chase religious gloom! 'Tis reason, thought, The light, the radiance, that pervades the soul, And sheds its beams on heav'n's mysterious way! As yet this light but glimmer'd, and again Error prevail'd; while kings, by force uprais'd, Let loose the rage of bigots on their foes, And seek affection by the dreadful boon Of licens'd murder. Ev'n the kindest prince, The most extended breast, the royal Hal! All unrelenting heard the Lollards' cry Burst from the centre of remorseless flames; Their shrieks endur'd! O stain to martial praise! When Cobham, gen'rous as the noble peer That wears his honours, paid the fatal price Of virtue blooming ere the storms were laid!

'Twas thus, alternate, truth's precarious flame Decay'd or flourish'd. With malignant eye The pontiff saw Britannia's golden fleece, Once all his own, invest her worthier sons! Her verdant vallies and her fertile plains, Yellow with grain, abjure his hateful sway! Essay'd his utmost art, and inly own'd No labours bore proportion to the prize.

So when the tempter view'd, with envious eye, The first fair pattern of the female frame, All Nature's beauties in one form display'd, And centring there, in wild amaze he stood; Then only envying Heav'n's creative hand, Wish'd to his gloomy reign his envious arts Might win this prize, and doubled ev'ry snare.

And vain were reason, courage, learning, all, Till pow'r accede; till Tudor's wild caprice Smile on their cause; Tudor! whose tyrant reign With mental freedom crown'd, the best of kings Might envious view, and ill prefer their own! Then Wolsey rose, by Nature form'd to seek Ambition's trophies, by address to win, By temper to enjoy—whose humbler birth Taught the gay scenes of pomp to dazzle more.

Then from its tow'ring height with horrid sound Rush'd the proud Abbey: then the vaulted roofs, Torn from their walls, disclos'd the wanton scene Of monkish chastity! Each angry friar Crawl'd from his bedded strumpet, mutt'ring low An ineffectual curse. The pervious nooks That, ages past, convey'd the guileful priest To play some image on the gaping crowd Imbibe the novel day-light, and expose, Obvious, the fraudful engin'ry of Rome. As tho' this op'ning earth to nether realms Should flash meridian day, the hooded race Shudder, abash'd to find their cheats display'd, And, conscious of their guilt, and pleas'd to wave Its fearful meed, resign'd their fair domain.

Nor yet supine, nor void of rage, retir'd The pest gigantic, whose revengeful stroke Ting'd the red annals of Maria's reign, When from the tend'rest breast each wayward priest Could banish mercy and implant a fiend! When Cruelty the fun'ral pyre uprear'd, And bound Religion there, and fir'd the base! When the same blaze, which on each tortur'd limb Fed with luxuriant rage, in ev'ry face Triumphant faith appear'd, and smiling hope. O bless'd Eliza! from thy piercing beam Forth flew this hated fiend, the child of Rome; Driv'n to the verge of Albion, linger'd there, Then with her James receding, cast behind One angry frown, and sought more servile climes. Henceforth they ply'd the long-continued task Of righteous havoc, cov'ring distant fields With the wrought remnants of the shatter'd pile, While thro' the land the musing pilgrim sees A tract of brighter green, and in the midst Appears a mould'ring wall, with ivy crown'd, Or Gothic turret, pride of ancient days! Now but of use to grace a rural scene, To bound our vistas, and to glad the sons Of George's reign, reserv'd for fairer times!