Classic Poem

The crooked bank still winds to something new,
Oars, scarcely turned, diversify the view;
Of trees and stone an intermingled scene,
The shady precipice and rocky green.
Nature behold, to please and to surprise,
Swell into bastions, or in columns rise:
Here sinking spaces with dark boughs o'ergrown,
And there the naked quarries look a town.
At length our pilgrimage's home appears,
Tintern her venerable fabric rears,
While the sun, mildly glancing in decline,
With his last gilding beautifies the shrine:
Enter with reverence her hallowed gate,
And trace the glorious relics of her state;
The meeting arches, pillared walks admire,
Or, musing, hearken to the silenced choir.
Encircling groves diffuse a solemn grace,
And dimly fill th' historic window's place;
While pitying shrubs on the bare summit try
To give the roofless pile a canopy.
Here, O my friends, along the mossy dome
In pleasurable sadness let me roam:
Look back upon the world in haven safe,
Weep o'er its ruins, at its follies laugh.