Where the rude buttress totters to its fall,
And ivy mantles o’er the crumbling wall;
Where e’en the skilful eve can scarcely trace
The once high altar’s lowly resting place –
Let patriotic fancy muse awhile
Amid the ruins of this ancient pile.
Six weary centuries have past away;
Palace and abbey moulder in decay –
Cold death enshrouds the learned and the brave –
Langton – Fitz Walter – slumber in the grave.
But still we read in deathless records how
The high-soul’d priest confirm’d the barons vow;
And Freedom, unforgetful still recites
This second birth-place of our native rights.