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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=355423" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Saint Monica</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">AMONG deep woods is the dismantled scite <br>Of an old Abbey, where the chaunted rite, <br>By twice ten brethren of the monkish cowl, <br>Was duly sung; and requiems for the soul <br>Of the first founder: For the lordly chief, <br>Who flourish'd paramount of many a fief, <br>Left here a stipend yearly paid, that they, <br>The pious monks, for his repose might say <br>Mass and orisons to Saint Monica. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Beneath the falling archway overgrown <br>With briars, a bench remains, a single stone, <br>Where sat the indigent, to wait the dole <br>Given at the buttery; that the baron's soul <br>The poor might intercede for; there would rest, <br>Known by his hat of straw with cockles drest, <br>And staff and humble weed of watchet gray, <br>The wandering pilgrim; who came there to pray <br>The intercession of Saint Monica. <br>Stern Reformation and the lapse of years <br>Have reft the windows, and no more appears <br>Abbot or martyr on the glass anneal'd; <br>And half the falling cloisters are conceal'd </div><div style="margin:10px 0">By ash and elder: the refectory wall <br>Oft in the storm of night is heard to fall, <br>When, wearied by the labours of the day, <br>The half awaken'd cotters, starting say, <br>'It is the ruins of Saint Monica.' <br>Now with approaching rain is heard the rill, <br>Just trickling thro' a deep and hollow gill <br>By osiers, and the alder's crowding bush, <br>Reeds, and dwarf elder, and the pithy rush, <br>Choak'd and impeded: to the lower ground <br>Slowly it creeps; there traces still are found <br>Of hollow squares, embank'd with beaten clay, <br>Where brightly glitter'd in the eye of day <br>The peopled waters of Saint Monica. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The chapel pavement, where the name and date, <br>Or monkish rhyme, had mark'd the graven plate, <br>With docks and nettles now is overgrown; <br>And brambles trail above the dead unknown. <br>Impatient of the heat, the straggling ewe <br>Tinkles her drowsy bell, as nibbling slow <br>She picks the grass among the thistles gray, <br>Whose feather'd seed the light air bears away, <br>O'er the pale relicks of Saint Monica. <br>Reecho'd by the walls, the owl obscene <br>Hoots to the night; as thro' the ivy green <br>Whose matted tods the arch and buttress bind, <br>Sobs in low gusts the melancholy wind: </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Conium there, her stalks bedropp'd with red, <br>Rears, with Circea, neighbour of the dead; <br>Atropa too, that, as the beldams say, <br>Shews her black fruit to tempt and to betray, <br>Nods by the mouldering shrine of Monica. <br>Old tales and legends are not quite forgot. <br>Still Superstition hovers o'er the spot, <br>And tells how here, the wan and restless sprite, <br>By some way-wilder'd peasant seen at night, <br>Gibbers and shrieks, among the ruins drear; <br>And how the friar's lanthorn will appear <br>Gleaming among the woods, with fearful ray, <br>And from the church-yard take its wavering way, <br>To the dim arches of Saint Monica. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The antiquary comes not to explore, <br>As once, the unrafter'd roof and pathless floor; <br>For now, no more beneath the vaulted ground <br>Is crosier, cross, or sculptur'd chalice found, <br>Nor record telling of the wassail ale, <br>What time the welcome summons to regale, <br>Given by the matin peal on holiday, <br>The villagers rejoicing to obey, <br>Feasted, in honour of Saint Monica. <br>Yet often still at eve, or early morn, <br>Among these ruins shagg'd with fern and thorn, <br>A pensive stranger from his lonely seat <br>Observes the rapid martin, threading fleet </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The broken arch: or follows with his eye, <br>The wall-creeper that hunts the burnish'd fly; <br>Sees the newt basking in the sunny ray, <br>Or snail that sinuous winds his shining way, <br>O'er the time-fretted walls of Monica. <br>He comes not here, from the sepulchral stone <br>To tear the oblivious pall that Time has thrown, <br>But meditating, marks the power proceed <br>From the mapped lichen, to the plumed weed, <br>From thready mosses to the veined flower, <br>The silent, slow, but ever active power <br>Of Vegetative Life, that o'er Decay <br>Weaves her green mantle, when returning May <br>Dresses the ruins of Saint Monica. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh Nature ! ever lovely, ever new, <br>He whom his earliest vows has paid to you <br>Still finds, that life has something to bestow; <br>And while to dark Forgetfulness they go, <br>Man, and the works of man; immortal Youth, <br>Unfading Beauty, and eternal Truth, <br>Your Heaven-indited volume will display, <br>While Art's elaborate monuments decay, <br>Even as these shatter'd aisles, deserted Monica !</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Charlotte+Smith">Charlotte Smith</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=355423" data-title="Saint Monica de Charlotte Smith" data-description="AMONG deep woods is the dismantled scite 
Of an old Abbey, where the chaunted rite, 
By twice ten brethren of the monkish cowl, 
Was duly sung; and requiems for the soul 
Of the first founder: For the lordly chief, 
Who flourish'd paramount of man..."></div>
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