THE crooked bank still winds to something new, Oars, scarcely turned, diversify the view; Of trees and stone an intermingled scene, The shady precipice and rocky green. Nature behold, to please and to surprise, Swell into bastions, or in columns rise: Here sinking spaces with dark boughs o'ergrown, And there the naked quarries look a town. At length our pilgrimage's home appears, Tintern her venerable fabric rears, While the sun, mildly glancing in decline, With his last gilding beautifies the shrine: Enter with reverence her hallowed gate, And trace the glorious relics of her state; The meeting arches, pillared walks admire, Or, musing, hearken to the silenced choir. Encircling groves diffuse a solemn grace, And dimly fill th' historic window's place; While pitying shrubs on the bare summit try To give the roofless pile a canopy. Here, O my friends, along the mossy dome In pleasurable sadness let me roam:Look back upon the world in haven safe, Weep o'er its ruins, at its follies laugh. |