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The antiquary comes not to explore, As once, the unrafter'd roof and pathless floor; For now, no more beneath the vaulted ground Is crosier, cross, or sculptur'd chalice found, Nor record telling of the wassail ale, What time the welcome summons to regale, Given by the matin peal on holiday, The villagers rejoicing to obey, Feasted, in honour of Saint Monica.

Yet often still at eve, or early morn, Among these ruins shagg'd with fern and thorn, A pensive stranger from his lonely seat Observes the rapid martin, threading fleet