I trod your level lawn,
Oft wooed the gleam of Cynthia, silver-bright,
In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of Folly,
With Freedom by my side, and soft-eyed Melancholy.

IV.

But hark! the portals sound, and pacing forth,
With solemn steps and slow,
High potentates, and dames of royal birth,
And mitred fathers, in long orders go:
Great Edward,[2] with the Lilies on his brow
From haughty Gallia torn, 40
And sad Chatillon,[3] on her bridal morn,
That wept her bleeding love, and princely Clare,[4]
And Anjou's heroine,[5] and the paler Rose,[6]
The rival of her crown, and of her woes,
And either Henry[7] there,
The murder'd saint, and the majestic lord
That broke the bonds of Rome,--
(Their tears, their little triumphs o'er,
Their human passions now no more,
Save Charity, that glows beyond the tomb,) 50
All that on Granta's fruitful plain
Rich streams of regal bounty pour'd,
And bade those awful fanes and turrets rise,
To hail their Fitzroy's festal morning come;
And thus they speak in soft accord
The liquid language of the skies: