When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruin'd central tower;
When buttress and buttress, alternately,
Seem framed of ebon and ivory;
When silver edges the imagery.
And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;
When distant Tweed is heard to rave,
And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave,
Then go--but go alone the while--
Then view St. David's ruin'd pile;
And, home returning, soothly swear.
Was ever scene so sad and fair?
I reminded my brother that there would be no moon visible that night,
and that it would therefore be impossible to see the old abbey "by the
pale moonlight"; but he said the starlight would do just as well for
him, so we had to wait until one or two stars made their appearance, and
then departed, calling at a shop to make a few small purchases as we
passed on our way. The path alongside the abbey was entirely deserted.
Though so near the town there was scarcely a sound to be heard, not even
"the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave." Although we had no
moonlight, the stars were shining brightly through the ruined arches
which had once been filled with stained glass, representing the figures
"of many a prophet and many a saint.
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