AN ELEGY WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS OF AN ABBEY. Edward Jerningham 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 1135 K093079.002 Pearch, G. A collection of poems in four volumes. By several hands. Vol. II. [The second edition]. London printed for G. Pearch 1770 pp. 117-122. 4v. ; 8⁰.

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AN ELEGY WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS OF AN ABBEY . BY MR. JERNINGHAM . WHERE sighs the zephyr to you lonely tree , A solemn grove its leafy mantle spread : Where bend you mouldering turrets o'er the sea , A venerable dome once rear'd its head . The solemn grove , the venerable dome , Were erst frequented by a numerous train , Ev'n chaste as they who Dian's mountain roam , But not subjected to her gentle reign : Far other Goddess did this train obey , Far other temples , other altars rais'd , Far other meaning breath'd their choral lay , Far other incense on their altars blaz'd : Veil'd Superstition wak'd her magic sound , Bad Albion's sons sorsake the splendid court , Forsake Amusement's variegated round , And to her sable standard here resort : Alas ! obsequious to her stern command , A sullen-pensive brotherhood they came , Refus'd to trace the paths by Nature plann'd , And raz'd from Glory's page their ancient name . Nor these alone were found incloister'd here , Here also dwelt the simple-minded swain , Who , wrapt in sloth , dream'd out the lazy year , While Industry sat weeping on the plain ! The many temples rising fair to view , Which towering Superstition call'd her own , With hand unerring radiant Truth o'erthrew , And snatch'd th' impostor from her tinsell'd throne . On yon dust-levell'd spire the crafty maid , With indignation brooding in her breast , Sits gloomily . — Her votaries all are fled , Her lamps extinguish'd , and her rites suppress'd : Within her hand a vacant string she holds , That once connected many a hallow'd bead : The blotted scroll the other hand unfolds , Contain'd the maxims of her slighted creed . Couch'd at her feet , behold a mouldering shrine , ( Of various relics once the dread abode ) Where runs the spider o'er his treacherous line , Where lurks the beetle , and the loathso me toad : On Darkness' wing now sails the midnight hour , When for the grateful sound of choral prayer , The shrieking owl from you disparted tower , With notes of horror wakes her trembling ear . Of human grandeur mark the fleeting day , How frail each purpose , and each wish how vain ! The strong-built domes , the cloister'd fanes decay , And ruin hovers round the desert scene . The path that leads to yonder shatter'd pile Is now perplex'd with many a sordid brier : No crowd is seen within the sacred isle , The Sabbath mourns its long-deserted choir . The golden crozier blended with the dust In horrid folds the serpent clasps around : The powerful image , and the sainted bust , Desam'd , unhallow'd , press the weedy ground . Not distant far , her gold encircled tower Th' inviolable dame majestic rear'd , On whose dread altar breath'd some hidden power , By Terror guarded , and by kings rever'd : To which asylum ev'n th' assassin came , ( His hand audacious still imbru'd with gore ) The boon of full impunity to claim , While feeble Justice wept her baffled lore . So Truth at once dissolv'd the mental chain , And banish'd Error from th' enlighten'd shore ; So clos'd at length the busy-acted scene , The curtain dropp'd , and Folly's mask was o'er . The gladsome Ceres rais'd her drooping head , ( While yellow harvests gilt the smiling plain ) Beheld a youthful band around her spread , With sickles arm'd to reap the bearded grain . The warrior then beneath the trailing vest , The peaceful cessock , or the drowsy cowl , No longer quench'd the flame within his breast , Or lull'd the purpose of his daring soul : But rush'd undaunted to the doubtful war , Pursu'd where Glory led the radiant way , Till Neptune rising on his coral car , Resign'd his watry world to Britain's sway . The virgin fair by venal guardians doom'd , By error prompted , or subdu'd by force , No more in cloisters drear their days consum'd : Like flow'rets strew'd around the senseless corse . Triumphant Hymen hail'd the blissful hour , And saw a white-rob'd social train approach , For whom the Pleasures dress'd the happy bower , And scatter'd roses o'er the destin'd couch . Still other blessings from this change appear'd ; No injur'd family did then behold On loitering monks its native wealth conferr'd , Nor spacious altars cover'd with its gold . Full many trod that crooked path to Fame , Yet from her hand receiv'd no lasting meed , She from her annals rends their fading name , And gives to Infamy the worthless deed : But Vengeance some pursu'd with dire disgrace , Pursu'd beyond the circle of its sphere , Even to the cementery's dark recess , Nor spar'd them sleeping on the peaceful bier . Beside the spreading of that sombrous yew , Where yawns with hideous chasm the vaulted cave , Presenting to the fix'd astonish'd view The profanation of a rifled grave : The large-endowing Rufus lay inurn'd , With many a sculputur'd image on his shrine , That smit with sorrow o'er his ashes mourn'd , The Sister-Graces , and the tuneful Nine . Imprinted on Tradition's storied leaf Is found ( to this sepulchral spot confin'd ) A terror-breathing tale that wins belief , And oft repeated by the neighb'ring hind ! From where yon mountain shades the dreary plain , Attracted by the scent of human blood , A troop of wolves voracious scour'd amain , And at this charnel-vault requir'd their food . When , horrid to relate ! they burst the tomb , And swift descending to the deepest shade , Up-tore the shrowded tenant from its womb , And o'er the mangled corse relentless prey'd . The paly stars with dim reluctant light , Like tapers glimmer'd on their orgies foul , While gliding spectres scream'd with wild affright , Re-echo'd loud by their tremendous howl ! Ah ! what avail'd the solemn-moving hearse ? The sable mantled cars , the funeral throng ? Grav'd on his monument the soothing verse ? The priests , the torches , and the choral song ? Misjudging wretch ! while thou with hand profuse Thy treasures on this mansion didst entail , And pour down riches on the vow'd recluse , Thine orphan babes partook a scanty meal . Thy widow'd fair , her cheek bedew'd with tears , Approach'd with suppliant knee the cloister-gate , There ost disclos'd in vain her poignant cares , Returning still to weep her hapless fate .