Poem by Christopher Newman Hall

Bolton Abbey

ENTRANCED with varied loveliness, I gaze
On Bolton’s hallowed fane. Its hoary walls,
More eloquent, in ruin, than the halls
Of princely pomp, their solemn features raise
Mid thick embowering elms. Meek cattle graze
The peaceful pastures circling it around;
Old Wharf flows sparkling by with pensive sound,
And heathery hills look down through purple haze.
All lend their aid to prompt these humble lays;
Some kind and soothing influence all have given,—
The mouldering abbey and the moss-grown grave,
The breezy moorland and the rock-nurst wave,
Cliff, meadow, forest,—all direct to heaven,
All blend their voices in one psalm of praise.

1. My Times Are in Thy Hands

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