Netley Abbey

Fallen pile! I ask not what has been thy fate; But when the winds, slow wafted from the main, Through each rent arch, like spirits that complain, Come hollow to my ear, I meditate On this world's passing pageant, and the lot Of those who once majestic in their prime Stood smiling at decay, till bowed by time Or injury, their early boast forgot, They may have fallen like thee! Pale and forlorn, Their brow, besprent with thin hairs, white as snow, They lift, still unsubdued, as they would scorn This short-lived scene of vanity and woe; Whilst on their sad looks smilingly they bear The trace of creeping age, and the pale hue of care!