A silver stream, 88 in the days of yore,
When the old hermit of the neighbouring cell
Bless’d the clear waters of St Anton’s Well ;
And you grey ruins, ou whose grassy floor
The lambkins browse, rung out the matiu bell,
Whose voice upon the neighbouring city fell
Waking up ’mong its crowds old h e a d that wore
Griefs like our own ; sounding to one the knell
Of ruined hopes, to which another heeds
As joyful music on his marriage morn.
Up you steep cliff how oft light steps have borne
The wedding or the chr.ktening train ; where weeds
So long have grown the chapel altar stood,
And daily pilgrims knelt before the Holy Rood..
Thus fashiona change, while Nature h the same ;
The altar gone,-& chapel’s crumbling walla
O’erlooking there the Stuarts’ ancient halh,
Deserted all and drear ; with but the fame
Of buried glories giving them B name ;
Where yet the past as with a spell enthralls
The wanderer’a fancy, rapt in musing dream
Of ancient story, helping it to frame
Old scenes in you grey aisles, when mass was sung;
While Mary-hapless Queen-knelt low the while,
Aud thrilling chaunts and incense filled the aisle ;-
Vain dream !-Of all that there 80 fondly Clung,
Nought save the daisy and the blue harebell
Breathe their old incense by St Anton’s Well.
