The Barrow Herald and Furness Advertiser. — 1880-02-03 (Barrow-in-Furness, Cumbria, England)

FURNESS ABBEY.  Let Layard quarry Nineveh, or Bartlett boat the Nile, Or Alphonse weave his °Wile lays on Balbee's ruined pile, Let any boast the magic charm that lingers o'er the shrine Of Attic temples, Roman groves, or scenes of Palestine; What boots it that a British child should seek for pleasure there, While Furness' haunted Abbey stands, and waves her woodlands fair. High noon had passed in summer sheen, and Sol's discharging rays, O'er broken arches, monuments, suffused a purple blaze, Where darkest gloom, and rigid rites of yore had reigned supreme, Now sunshine played among the flowers, and lit the babbling stream; Where cowled moks perchance had trod, now roved a laughing band, High hearted youth with boisterous glee, and maidens hand in hand. But one there was among that throng, whose soul the dreamy spell That clad these relics of the past, enchained like music's spell, Apart he mused and laid him down beneath a jessmine tree, The ivy rustled over head, and clover decked the lea; His pensive fancy wandered back to scenes of other days, Till outward vision closed at last, in dreamland's mystic maze. No longer ivy twined around, the jessmine trees were  gone, Where broken arches last were seen, medieval windows shone. Again the Abbey proudly reared her belfry towers on high, And in her ancient prime once more, she filled the sleeper's eye ; Gray hooded men priest, abbot, monk -- again thronged hall and cell, And one of youthful brow he heard, thus bid the world farewell : No more! No inure! The word bath passed; thy treasures, earth, That once I deemed for me were cast, what now their worth ? My early hopes and boyhoods dreams shaped not for this When round me played the fitful gleams of happiness! But here within this stone, cold cell, no footstep near, No sound except the vesper bell my soul to cheer. A wasting canker seems the sense of loneness now, Or why this mad unrest, and whence this throbbing brow. They tell me, too, I must forget youth's sacred flame, No longer wear her locks of jet, or breathe her name. Arm linked with her no longer weave love's golden ' threads, When bright above star jewelled eve her glory spreads. Then fond delights that crowned my path, oh, pass ye on; For me life's joy and glory bath for ever gone. Farewell! Farewell! I will not weep, though sad my lot ; But time, oh haste the troubled sleep that waketh not. The sleeper started from his trance, gay sounds of mirth were near, Light silvery voices floated by and music charmed the ear. With laughing, careless step they came, the young, the fair, the free-Old time and care seemed all forgot, 'raid lightsome " revelrie." " Fa3rre ladyes" certes graced that band, sweet phantoms of delight, In pink and lilac some arrayed, and some in robes of white. Oh, dreamer, point a moral now, or prithee, list to mine, When next you mix in pleasures throng, to lighter moods incline. The mouldering monks beneath your tread, 'twas theirs to yearn and sigh, When severed from the springs of bliss that now surround your eye. But you; go to! let owlets sigh, leave mourning to the dove, Young hearts should seek the brighter themes of Beauty, Joy, and Love.  THE Mexcitssran Moarma.—A. strong impression prevails in Manchester that the police will vise an early opportunity of abandoning the charge of murder against Heald. It is confidently expected that he will shortly be released. The discovery of the poker is regarded as unimportant. It was packed along with other miscellaneous domestic articles the day before the murder, and the box had not, according to the prisoner's wife, 'been opened.