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	A FEELING sad came o'er me as I trod the sacred ground Where Tudors and Plantagenets were lying all around: I stepp'd with noiseless foot, as though the sound of mortal             tread Might burst the bands of the dreamless sleep that wraps the             mighty dead! The slanting ray of the evening sun shone through those             cloisters pale, With fitful light on regal vest, and warrior's sculptured             mail, As from the stained and storied pane it danced with quiver-             ing gleam, Each cold and prostrate form below seem'd quickening in             the beam. Now, sinking low, no more was heard the organ's solemn             swell, And faint upon the listening ear the last Hosanna fell: It died—and not a breath did stir;—above each knightly             stall, Unmoved, the banner'd blazonry hung waveless as a pall. I stood alone!—a living thing 'midst those that were no             more— I thought on ages past and gone—the glorious deeds of             yore— On Edward's sable panoply, on Cressy's tented plain, The fatal Roses twined at length—on great Eliza's reign. I thought on Naseby—Marston Moor—on Worc'ster's             "crowning fight;" When on mine ear a sound there fell—it chill'd me with             affright, As thus in low, unearthly, tones I heard a voice begin, " —This here's the Cap of Giniral Monk!—Sir! please put             summut in!"               *               *               *               *
		Caetera desiderantur.