NETLEY ABBEY.

Fall'n 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 fall'n 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!