Fountains Abbey

At York, St Mary's Abbey stood
Perhaps eight hundred years ago,
Wherein the Monks, devout and good,
Led lives of sheltered calm–and so
It happened that the rule grew lax,
As wielded by the Abbot there,
And discipline, as soft as wax,
Let evil in that House of Prayer;
A section of the monks therein
Withdrawal from St Mary's sought,
Because the lack of discipline
With danger to the soul was fraught
The Abbot's sanction unobtained,
They sought Archbishop Thurstan's aid,
The help desired was quickly gained,
Grave alteration soon was made;
The Abbot shortly was disgraced,
The Prelate, then, with justice strict,
The Abbey of St Mary's placed
Under his holy interdict.
The men who'd left for conscience sake
Received from him another site,
And settled down thereon, to make
A monastery, pure and bright.
It in the Vale of Fountains rose,
From ground o'er grown by bush reclaimed,
A goodly work, as history shows,
And Fountains Abbey it was named.
Although with difficulties faced,
The pious workers, firm of will,
With never doubt, nor undue haste,
Still laboured, unassisted, till
At length the Abbey was complete,
Its holy ground the inmates trod,
Their prayers arose, as incense sweet,
In dedication to their God.
Through years it grew, both great and rich,
Destined, at length, by grace, to be
A stately structure, but of which
The ruins only, now, we see.