A Ruin

In a cot--studded, fruity, green deep dale, There grows the ruin of an abbey old; And on the hill side, cut in rock, behold A sainted hermit's cell; so goes the tale. What of that ruin? There is nothing left Save one sky--framing window arch, which climbs Up to its top point, single stoned, bereft Of prop or load. And this strange thing sublimes The scene. For the fair great house, vowed to God, Is hurled down and unhallowed; and we tread O'er buried graves which have devoured their dead; While over all springs up the green--lifed sod, And arch, so light and lofty in its span-- So frail, and yet so lasting--tis like man.