AN ELEGY ON A PILE OF RUINS. John Cunningham Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T116245 1122 K093079.001 Pearch, G. A collection of poems in four volumes. By several hands. Vol. I. [The second edition]. London printed for G. Pearch 1770 pp. 108-114. 4v. ; 8⁰.

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AN ELEGY ON A PILE OF RUINS . BY J. CUNNINGHAM . IN the full prospect yonder hill commands O'er forests , fields , and vernal-coated plains ; The vestige of an ancient abbey stands , Close by a ruin'd castle's rude remains . Half buried , there , lie many a broken bust , And obelisk , and urn , o'erthrown by time ; And many a cherub , here , descends in dust From the rent roof , and portico sublime . The rivulets , oft frighted at the sound Of fragments tumbling from the towers on high , Plunge to their source in secret caves profound , Leaving their banks and pebbly bottoms dry . Where reverend shrines in gothic grandeur stood , The nettle , or the noxious night-shade , spreads ; And ashlings , wafted from the neighbouring wood , Thro' the worn turrets wave their trembling heads . There Contemplation , to the crowd unknown , Her attitude compos'd , and aspect sweet ! Sits musing on a monumental stone , And points to the memento at her feet . Soon as sage evening check'd day's sunny pride , I left the mantling shade , in moral mood ; And , seated by the maid's sequester'd side , Thus sigh'd , the mouldering ruins as I view'd . Inexorably calm , with silent pace , Here Time has pass'd — What ruin marks his way ! This pile , now crumbling o'er its hallow'd base , Turn'd not his step , nor could his course delay . Religion rais'd her supplicating eyes In vain ; and Melody , her song sublime : In vain , Philosophy , with maxims wise , Would touch the cold unfeeling heart of Time . Yet the hoar tyrant , tho' not mov'd to spare , Relented when he struck its finish'd pride ; And , partly the rude ravage to repair , The tottering towers with twisted ivy tied . How solemn is the cell o'ergrown with moss , That terminates the view yon cloister'd way ! In the crush'd wall a time-corroded cross , Religion like , stands mouldering in decay ! Where the mild sun , thro' saint-encypher'd glass , Illum'd with mellow light that brown-brow'd isle ; Many rapt hours might Meditation pass , Slow moving 'twixt the pillars of the pile ! And Piety , with mystic-meaning beads , Bowing to saints on every side inurn'd , Trod oft the solitary path , that leads Where now the sacred altar lies o'erturn'd ! Thro' the grey grove , betwixt those withering trees ; 'Mongst a rude group of monuments , appears A marble-imag'd matron on her knees , Half wasted , like a Niobe in tears : Low levell'd in the dust her darling's laid ! Death pitied not the pride of youthful bloom ; Nor could maternal piety dissuade , Or soften the fell tyrant of the tomb . The relicks of a mitred saint may rest , Where , mouldering in the nich , his statue stand Now nameless , as the crowd that kiss'd his vest , And crav'd the benediction of his hands . Near the brown arch , redoubling yonder gloom , The bones of an illustrious chieftain lie ; As trac'd upon the time-unletter'd tomb , The trophies of a broken fame imply . Ah ! what avails , that o'er the vassal plain , His rights and rich demesnes extended wide ! That honour , and her knights , compos'd his train , And chivalry stood marshall'd by his side ! Tho' to the clouds his castle seem'd to climb , And frown'd defiance on the desperate foe ; Tho' deem'd invincible , the conqueror , Time , Levell'd the fabric , as the founder , low . Where the light lyre gave many a softening sound , Ravens and rooks , the birds of discord dwell ; And where society sat sweetly crown'd , Eternal solitude has fix'd her cell . The lizard , and the lazy lurking bat , Inhabit now , perhaps , the painted room , Where the sage matron and her maidens sat , Sweet-singing at the silver-working loom . The traveller's bewilder'd on a waste ; And the rude winds incessant seem to roar , Where , in his groves with arching arbours grac'd , Young lovers often sigh'd in days of yore . His aqueducts , that led the limpid tide To pure canals , a crystal cool supply ! In the deep dust their barren beauties hide : Time's thirst , unquenchable , has drain'd them dry ! Tho' his rich hours in revelry were spent With Comus , and the laughter-loving crew ; And the sweet brow of beauty , still unbent , Brighten'd his fleecy moments as they flew : Fleet are the fleecy moments ! fly they must ; Not to be stay'd by masque , or midnight roar ! Nor shall a pulse , amongst that mouldering dust , Beat wanton at the smiles of beauty more ! Can the deep statesman , skill'd in great design , Protract , but for a day , precarious breath ; Or the tun'd follower of the sacred nine , Soothe , with his melody , insatiate Death ? No — tho' the palace bar her golden gate , Or monarchs plant ten thousand guards around ; Unerring , and unseen , the shaft of fate Strikes the devoted victim to the ground ! What then avails ambition's wide-stretch'd wing , The schoolman's page , or pride of beauty's bloom ! The crape-clad hermit , and the rich-rob'd king , Levell'd , lie mix'd promiscuous in the tomb . The Macedonian monarch , wise and good , Bade , when the morning's rosy reign began , Courtiers should call , as round his couch they stood , " Philip ! remember , thou'rt no more than man . " Tho' glory spread thy name from pole to pole ; " Tho' thou art merciful , and brave , and just ; " Philip , reflect , thou'rt posting to the goal , " Where mortals mix in undistinguish'd dust ! " So Saladin , for arts and arms renown'd , ( Aegypt and Syria's wide domains subdued ) Returning with imperial triumphs crown'd , Sigh'd , when the perishable pomp he view'd : And as he rode , high in his regal car , In all the purple pride of conquest drest ; Conspicuous , o'er the trophies gain'd in war , Plac'd , pendent on a spear , his burial vest : While thus the herald cried — " This son of power , " This Saladin , to whom the nations bow'd ; " May , in the space of one revolving hour , " Boast of no other spoil , but yonder shroud ! " Search where Ambition rag'd , with rigour steel'd ; Where Slaughter , like the rapid lightning , ran ; And say , while Memory weeps the blood-stain'd field , Where lies the chief , and where the common man ? Vain are the pyramids , and motto'd stones , And monumental trophies rais'd on high ! For time confounds them with the crumbling bones , That mix'd in hasty graves unnotic'd lie . Rests not , beneath the turf , the peasant's head , Soft as the lord's , beneath the labour'd tomb ? Or sleeps one colder , in his close clay bed , Than t'other , in the wide vault's dreary womb ? Hither let Luxury lead her loose-rob'd train ; Here flutter Pride , on purple painted wings : And , from the moral prospect , learn — how vain The wish , that sighs for sublunary things .