Pale Cynthia mounted on her silver car
O'er heav'n's blue concave drives her nightly round:
See a torn abbey, wrapt in gloom, appear
Scatter'd in wild confusion o'er the ground.
Here rav'nous  lifts her wasteful hands
O'er bri'ar-grown grots and bramble-shaded graves;
Safe from her wrath one weeping marble stands,
O'er which the mournful yew its umbrage waves;
Ope, ope thy pond'rous jaws, thou friendly tomb,
Close the sad deathful scene, and shroud me in thy womb!