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Page 36
"Wanderer, whither dost thou roam?
Weary wanderer, old and grey,
Wherefore has thou left thine home,
In the sunset of thy day.
Welcome wanderer as thou art,
All my blessings to partake;
Yet thrice welcome to my heart,
For thine injured people's sake.
Wanderer, whither would'st thou roam?
To what region far away?
Bend thy steps to find a home,
In the twilight of thy day.
Where a tyrant never trod,
Where a slave was never known--
But where Nature worships God
In the wilderness alone."
Mr. Montgomery seems to have thrown his entire soul into his meditations
on the wrongs of Switzerland. The poem from which we have just quoted,
is unquestionably one of his best productions, and contains more of the
fire of enthusiasm than all his other works. We feel a reverence almost
amounting to superstition, for the poet who deals with nature. And who
is more capable of understanding the human heart than the poet? Who has
better known the human feelings than Shakspere; better painted than
Milton, the grandeur of Virtue; better sighed than Byron over the subtle
weaknesses of Hope? Who ever had a sounder taste, a more exact
intellect than Dante? or who has ever tuned his harp more in favour of
Freedom, than our own Whittier?
LETTER XII.
_Kirkstall Abbey--Mary the Maid of the Inn--Newstead Abbey: Residence of
Lord Byron--Parish Church of Hucknall--Burial Place of Lord
Byron--Bristol: "Cook's Folly"--Chepstow Castle and Abbey--Tintern
Abbey--Redcliffe Church._
_January 29_.
In passing through Yorkshire, we could not resist the temptation it
offered, to pay a visit to the extensive and interesting ruin of
Kirkstall Abbey, which lies embosomed in a beautiful recess of Airedale,
about three miles from Leeds. A pleasant drive over a smooth road,
brought us abruptly in sight of the Abbey. The tranquil and pensive
beauty of the desolate Monastery, as it reposes in the lap of pastoral
luxuriance, and amidst the touching associations of seven centuries, is
almost beyond description when viewed from where we first beheld it.
After arriving at its base, we stood for some moments under the mighty
arches that lead into the great hall, gazing at its old grey walls
frowning with age. At the distance of a small field, the Aire is seen
gliding past the foot of the lawn on which the ruin stands, after it has
left those precincts, sparkling over a weir with a pleasing murmur. We
could fully enter into the feelings of the Poet when he says:--
"Beautiful fabric! even in decay
And desolation, beauty still is thine;
As the rich sunset of an autumn day,
When gorgeous clouds in glorious hues combine
To render homage to its slow decline,
Is more majestic in its parting hour:
Even so thy mouldering, venerable shrine
Possesses now a more subduing power,
Than in thine earlier sway, with pomp and pride thy dower."
The tale of "Mary, the Maid of the Inn," is supposed, and not without
foundation, to be connected with this Abbey. "Hark to Rover," the name
of the house where the key is kept, was, a century ago, a retired inn or
pot-house, and the haunt of many a desperate highwayman and poacher. The
anecdote is so well known, that it is scarcely necessary to relate it.
It, however, is briefly this:--
"One stormy night, as two travellers sat at the inn, each having
exhausted his news, the conversation was directed to the Abbey, the
boisterous night, and Mary's heroism; when a bet was at last made by one
of them, that she would not go and bring back from the nave a slip of
the alder-tree growing there. Mary, however, did go; but having nearly
reached the tree, she heard a low, indistinct dialogue; at the same
time, something black fell and rolled towards her, which afterwards
proved to be a hat. Directing her attention to the place whence the
conversation proceeded, she saw, from behind a pillar, two men carrying
a murdered body: they passed near the place where she stood, a heavy
cloud was swept from off the face of the moon, and Mary fell
senseless--one of the murderers was her intended husband! She was
awakened from her swoon, but--her reason had fled for ever." Mr. Southey
wrote a beautiful poem founded on this story, which will be found in his
published works. We spent nearly three hours in wandering through these
splendid ruins. It is both curious and interesting to trace the early
history of these old piles, which become the resort of thousands,
nine-tenths of whom are unaware either of the classic ground on which
they tread, or of the peculiar interest thrown around the spot by the
deeds of remote ages.
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