Fountain’s Abbey

ER more, when the day is o'er,

Will the lonely vespers sound;

No bells are ringing—no monks are singing,

When the moonlight falls around.

A few pale flowers, which in other

May have cheered the dreary mood;

When the votary turned to the world he had spurned,

And repined at the solitude.

Still do they blow 'mid the ruins below,

For fallen are fane and shrine,

And the moss has grown o'er the sculptured

Of an altar no more divine.

Still on the walls where the sunshine falls,

The ancient fruit-tree grows;

And o'er tablet and tomb, extends the

Of many a wilding rose.

Fair though they be, yet they seemed to

To mock the wreck below;

For mighty the tower, where the fragile

May now as in triumph blow.

Oh, foolish the thought, that my fancy brought;

More true and more wise to say,

That still thus doth spring, some gentle thing,

With its beauty to cheer decay.