Lyric bough / Clinton Scollard [electronic text]

THE ABBEY BY THE SKELL

IN the abbey by the Skell, O the lapsing of the years Since the last monastic bell Sounded sad upon the ears Of the holy men who there Bowed in final praise and prayer!

All day long the doves make moan In the over-topping tower; From the crevices of stone Waves the grass and nods the flower; And yet still doth grandeur dwell In the abbey by the Skell.

Gone are porch and pillar; gone Are the windows grand that gave, At the blossom-burst of dawn, Such a glory to the nave, Such a soft, celestial spell To the abbey by the Skell.

Mourns the immemorial yew In the cloisters green and wide For the brother band that grew By the singing river's side; Now but one its tale can tell Of the abbey by the Skell.

What a sermon here is writ By the ancient hand of Time! We have paused to ponder it, And would weave the text in rhyme Ere we breathe our low farewell To the abbey by the Skell.

By a miracle of birth Beauty buddeth from decay, So a godly work on earth Never fadeth quite away, Though it be not tangible Like the abbey by the Skell.