A spot more suited to the contemplative mind you will rarely see. Sequestered, solemn, still, the calm tranquillity is in perfect keeping with the sepulchre of human greatness, and the mind brooding upon the past overleaps the boundaries of centuries. In this spot orisons and vespers have been sung; the low sweet music of the Litany of the Cross has rolled; through the “long drawn aisle and fretted vault” the pealing organ has swelled the anthem’s note; and where now the sod is shaded by the overhanging verdure the funeral procession has often passed, the white-robed monks chanting awhile the soul-stirring “Supplicante parce Deus.” The following lines seem so applicable to the place that we make no apology for transcribing them:—
Around the very place doth brood
A strange and holy quietude,
Where lingers long the evening gleam
And stilly sounds the neighbouring stream.
I know not if it is the scene,
Bosom’d in hills by the ravine,
Or if it is the conscious mind
Hallows the spot and stills the wind,
And makes the very place to know