To thee, whose young and polish'd brow
The wrinkling hand of Sorrow spares;
Whose cheeks, bestrew'd with roses, know
No channel for the tide of tears;
To thee yon Abbey dank, and lone,
Where Ivy chains each mould'ring stone
That nods o'er many a Martyr's tomb,
May cast a formidable gloom.
Yet some there are, who, free from fear,
Could wander thro' the cloysters drear,
Could rove each desolated Isle,
Tho' midnight thunders shook the pile;
And dauntless view, or seem to view,
(As faintly flash the lightnings blue)
Thin shiv'ring Ghosts from yawning charnels throng,
And glance with silent sweep the shaggy vaults along.