Look

upon

In service high, and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness through mine ear
Dissolve me into ecstasies,

And bring all heaven before mine eyes.

this,—the

this picture, and upon this, the abbey in its

pride, the building in its decay

The hour has been, this mouldering pile

Was robed in symmetry sublime ;

Seen in stupendous strength to smile,

And seemed to dare the power of Time.

Netley Abbey, in days long gone by, was among the most famous of our monaftic eftablishments. It neftled amid the luxurious foliage and rich verdure on the banks of the broad water at Southampton; the towers of the abbey were the landmark of the happy mariner, and the peafant liftened with reverent joy to the vefper bell, and to the folemn chant of its inmates. All is changed. Ingoldfby reflects and moralizes over the scene,

I saw thee, Netley, as the sun
Across the western wave

Was sinking slow,

And a golden glow

To thy roofless towers he gave ;

And the ivy sheen,

With its mantle of green,

That wrapt thy walls around,
Shone lovelily bright

In that glorious light,

And I felt 't was holy ground.

For many years after the firft dawn of the Reformation, the people loved to congregate in the old abbeys, but the stately fabrics, neglected and defecrated, gradually funk into fuch graceful ruins as Tintern, and Kirkstall, and Newstead, and others. In the golden age of good Queen Befs, Bolton Abbey was a favourite place of Sabbath refort; poetic legends fuch as that of "The White Doe," "foft and filent as a dream," and "beauteous as the filver moon," had taken root in the popular mind and invested the time-worn buildings with the charms of romance, and drawn to them the homage of a devout veneration. It is one of the days of Elizabeth's golden reign that Wordsworth defcribes

From Bolton's old monastic tower,

The bells ring loud with gladsome power;

The sun is bright, the fields are gay,

With people in their best array

At first, quo' the king,-when I'm in this stead,
With my crown of gold so fair on my head;
Among all my liegemen of noble birth,

Thou must tell me, to one penny, what I am worth.

Secondly, tell me, without any doubt,

How soon I may ride the world about;

And at the third question thou must not shrink,

But tell me here truly, what I do think.

O, these are hard questions for my shallow wit,
Nor I cannot answer your Grace as yet;
But if you will give me three weeks' space,

I'll do my endeavour to answer your grace.

And our fathers loved to hear how the great abbot, forely distressed to answer these queries, was affifted out of his difficulty by his poor fhepherd, who, perfonating the abbot, appeared before the king, and having anfwered two of the queftions, was told by his majesty,

Now from the third question thou must not shrink,
But tell me here truly what I do think.

And the merry answer was,

Yea that shall I do, and make your grace merry;
You think I'm the abbot of Canterbury;

But I'm his poor shepherd, as plain you may see,
That am come to beg pardon for him and for me.

And "the merry King John," as the story goes, wanted to make the shepherd a "lord abbot;" but as the witty fellow could neither read nor write, the monarch rewarded the merry jest with

a penfion of "four nobles a week," and a pardon for the old abbot. The good things of this life were not only enjoyed by the jovial churchmen at Canterbury and elsewhere, but prelates and abbots loved to engage in manly sports and pastimes; and it is probable that Chaucer was not far wrong in his estimate of their qualifications, when he hints on more than one occafion that they were more skilled in riding and hunting than in divinity.

The Archdeacon of Richmond, we are told, on his initiation to the priory of Bridlington, in Yorkshire, in 1216, came attended by ninety-seven horses, twenty-one dogs, and three hawks. In 1256, Walter de Suffield, Bishop of Norwich, bequeathed by will his pack of hounds to the king; whilft the abbot of Tavistock, who had alfo a pack, was commanded by his bishop in 1348 to break it up. A famous hunter, contemporary with Chaucer, was William de Clowne, abbot of Leicester, who died in 1377. His reputation for skill in the sport of hare-hunting was fo great, that the king himself, his fon Edward, and certain noblemen, paid him an annual penfion that they might hunt with him.

Peace to their afhes! Those fine old abbeys, and rare old monks, we shall never look upon the like again!

THE OLD CASTLES OF ENGLAND.

LORIOUS were the barons of England! they live in fong and ftory, and their heroic deeds are recorded on the brightest pages of our hiftory! They were bold

men, and from their caftle homes they defied the tyranny which fought to enslave a brave people; or, iffuing from their fortreffes, they upheld in the battle-field the honour of their country; but when the ftern demands of war, or the promptings of chivalrous ardour, did not fummon them to the tented plain, their lordly caftles were the scene of festive mirth, and profuse hofpitality, rude perhaps in display, but genuine, high-fouled, and hearty in their character. In foreign lands, as on England's foil, the barons of England won victory from powerful hands :