Classic Poem

Where are they then? those hooded men,
Whose footfalls now no more,
Yon arches echo back again
That echoed oft of yore?

Here, in the olden time, they strolled
Along the well-worn aisle,
And swelled the solemn chant, that rolled
Through all the massy pile!

The reverend Abbot trim and sleek,
With well feigned look demure,
The burly friar whose aspect meek
Expressed devotion pure —

Here dwelt in yonder cloisters grim;
And oft were seen to glide
Through those old winding galleries dim,
Like ghosts at eventide.

Yon vaults well filled with rosy wine,
The larder with good cheer,
Well pleased they could the world resign ,
To tell their Aves here!

When round that stern old tower the storm
Howled dismally and wild,
In yon refectory bright and warm,
The well spread banquet smiled.

Round went the goblet, and each quaff
Warmed each glad heart the more;
Round went the song — the jovial laugh
Burst forth in loud uproar!

Nor died away — till from above,
With measured solemn peal,
The midnight hour was told, — their love ,
And self-denying zeal!

Oh where are these good Fathers now?
The crumbling walls ask — Where?
O'er those sepulchral pavements bow
And ask, — They SLUMBER THERE !