Bolton Abbey

Spirits of wonder, loveliness, and fear,
Dwell in these groves, beneath o'erarching trees,
With the dim presence of their mysteries
Haunting the rocks and mountain shadows near:
They pass the lone enthusiast, wandeiing here,
By strangled Wharfe, or Barden's ancient tower;
Pass him, nor shake a dewdrop from a flower.
But with their whispers soothe his soul-taught ear,
As with a dream of prayer; until he starts,
Awakened from deep thoughts of Time's calm might
And Nature's beauty, and in awe departs;—
When, to the Abbey's moonlight-tinted walls,
The demon of the spectred river calls,
Mocked by the voices of mysterious night.