Among The Ruins Of A Convent In The Apennines

[The political revolutions of our time have multiplied, on the Continent, objects that unavoidably call forth reflections such as are expressed in these verses, but the Ruins in those countries are too recent to exhibit, in anything like an equal degree, the beauty with which time and nature have invested the remains of our Convents and Abbeys. These verses, it will be observed, take up the beauty long before it is matured, as one cannot but wish it may be among some of the desolations of Italy, France, and Germany.--I.F.]

Ye Trees! whose slender roots entwine Altars that piety neglects; Whose infant arms enclasp the shrine Which no devotion now respects; If not a straggler from the herd Here ruminate, nor shrouded bird, Chanting her low-voiced hymn, take pride In aught that ye would grace or hide-- How sadly is your love misplaced, Fair Trees, your bounty run to waste!

Ye, too, wild Flowers! that no one heeds, And ye--full often spurned as weeds-- In beauty clothed, or breathing sweetness From fractured arch and mouldering wall-- Do but more touchingly recal Man’s headstrong violence and Time’s fleetness, Making the precincts ye adorn Appear to sight still more forlorn.

1845.

And ye, …

1842.

1845.

And make …

1842.