The Old Stydd, Ribchester
Lonely as some proud pyramid
That mystery maketh more sublime,
Through the grey welkin of dull time
Dim gleams thy sacred form, Old Stydd.
Thy ancient altar-fires lie hid
Beneath a load, piled through the past;
And thou the sway no longer hast
O'er saints who sought thy shrine, proud Stydd.
The age of chivalry hath slid
Down Time's declivity, alas!
No more is heard the solemn mass
Within thy cloistered walls, dark Stydd.
The present shrouds as with a lid
Of adamant thy holiness,
Yet fervent spirits, through the stress
Of centuries, feel its force, blest Stydd.
Thou dost the years defiance bid—
By moss and ivy overgrown,
Simplicity hath fixed her throne
On thy rude structure, ancient Stydd.
'Tis fabled that the Earthquake did
Not thee molest when once it came
Engulphing all; and hence thy name
Tradition holds derived, charmed Stydd.
But, truth or fable, Death could rid—
Thou mocker of mortality—
The world of them, but not of thee—
Thy worshippers—and builders—Stydd.
Though Mutilation chafed and chid
And strongly smote thy changeless form,
Like some stout ship, through calm and storm,
Eight hundred years thou'st braved, grey Stydd.
Through the dim future may'st thou thrid
Thy lonely pathway down the days,
Till, bathed in the millennial rays,
Thy dark form shall grow bright, weird Stydd.