Kirkstall Abbey

Distant but fifteen miles from Harrogate,
Shorn, long ago, of splendour and estate,
Yet breathing dignity, in sorry guise,
The ruin bare of Kirkstall Abbey lies.

Centuries back the Normans built the place,
It rose and flourished there, a thing of grace,
Its stones, for long, the goodly Abbots trod,
And sought, in piety, to serve their God.

Many vicissitudes the Abbey saw,
At length, responsive to the changing law,
From high estate the temple was cast down,
Its riches passed from Abbot to the Crown.

Cattle and corn, and all its valued plate,
All the adornments of its great estate,
Passed like each Earthly evanescent thing,
(And went to swell the coffers of the King).

Even the roof was taken from the Church,
Nor did the bells escape the spoilers search,
No reverence for goodly art was there,
The place was stripped, – the ruin was left bare.

Still stands the ruin, – visitors draw nigh,
Their thoughts returning to the years gone by,
Ere yet its glories in the dusk had sunk,
Peopled by Abbot and the cloistered monk.

So fades the glory of all earthly things,
So flies its panoply, with empty wings,
No more its grandeur may all men behold,
Closed is its history, like a tale that's told.