Long grass its pavement had o’ergrown,
The wild-flower waved o’er the altar stone,
The night-wind rock’d the tottering pile,
As it swept along the roofless aisle,
For the forest boughs and the stormy sky
Were all that minster’s canopy.
Many a broken image lay
In the mossy mantle of decay,
And partial light the moonbeams darted
O’er trophies of the long-departed;