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FULL six hundred years have fled,

And the Abbey pile is scatter'd ;

War and ruin have been spread,

Blood been spilt, and keystones shatter'd.

Ivy-stalks are running over

Cloister wall and oriel top;

Bluebell-cups and snowy clover

Tempt the first young bees to stop. High and wild the grass is growing,

Where the altar shrine was raised; There the fresh Spring wind is blowing, There the wandering kine have grazed.

ELIZA COOK.

FOR he was one in all their idle sport,
And like a monarch ruled their little court;
The pliant bow he form'd, the flying ball,
The bat, the wicket, were his labours all.

CRAEBE.

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I HAVE seen

A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract
Of inland ground, applying to his ear
The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell;
To which, in silence hushed, his very soul
Listened intensely; and his countenance soon
Brightened with joy; for murmurings from within
Were heard, sonorous cadences! whereby,
To his belief, the monitor expressed
Mysterious union with its native sea.
Even such a shell the universe itself

Is to the ear of faith; and there are times,
I doubt not, when to you it doth impart
Authentic tidings of invisible things;
Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power;
And central peace subsisting at the heart
Of endless agitation. Here you stand,
Adore, and worship, when you know it not:
Pious beyond the intention of your thought,
Devout above the meaning of your will.
Yes, you have felt, and may not cease to feel.
The estate of man would be indeed forlorn,
If false conclusions of the reasoning power
Made the eye blind, and closed the passages
Through which the ear converses with the heart.
Has not the soul, the being of your life,
Received a shock of awful consciousness,
In some calm season, when these lofty rocks
At night's approach bring down the unclouded sky

To rest upon their circumambient walls?

A temple framing of dimensions vast,
And yet not too enormous for the sound
Of human anthems,-choral song, or burst
Sublime of instrumental harmony,

To glorify the Eternal! What if these
Did never break the stillness that prevails
Here if the solemn nightingale be mute,
And the soft woodlark here did never chant

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