CnESTER. 41
Old Rome was once thy guest, beyond a doubt, And many a keepsake to thy hand she gave,
Trinket, and rusted coin, and lettered stone, Ere with her legions she recrossed the wave ;
And thou dost hoard her gifts with pride and care,
As erst the Gracchian dame displayed her jewels rare.
Here, neath thy dim Cathedral let us pause,
And list the echo of that sacred chime, That, when the heathen darkness fled away,
Went up at Easter and at Christmas time, Chants of His birth, who woke the angel-train, And of that bursting tomb, where Death himself was slain.
i
Ho ! Mercian Abbey, hast thou ne er a tale
Of grim Wulpherius, with his warriors dread ? Or of the veiled nuns at vigil pale,
Who owned the rule of Saxon Ethelfled ? Did hopeless love in yon dark cloisters sigh ? Or in thy dungeon vaults some sentenc d victim die ?
And there mid graceful shades is Eaton Hall, With princely gate and Gothic front of pride,
In modern beauty, though perchance we fain Might choose with hoar antiquity to bide,
For she, with muffled brow and legend wild,
Knows well to charm the ear of Fancy s musing child.
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