Imposing must have been the sight
Ere desolation found thee,
When morning breaking o'er thee bright,
With new-born glory crown'd thee:

When, rising from the neighbouring deep,
The eye of day survey'd thee;
Aroused thine inmates from their sleep,
And in his beams array'd thee.

And not to Fancy's eye alone
Thine earlier glories glisten;
Her ear recovers many a tone
To which 'tis sweet to listen.

Methinks I hear the matin song
From those proud arches pealing;
Now in full chorus borne along,
Now into distance stealing.

But yet more beautiful by far
Thy silent ruin sleeping
In the clear midnight, with that star
Through yonder archway peeping.

More beautiful that ivy fringe
That crests thy turrets hoary,
Touch'd by the moonbeams with a tinge
As of departed glory.

More spirit-stirring is the sound
Of night-winds softly sighing
Thy roofless walls and arches round,
And then in silence dying.