3 SEPTEMBER 1881, Page 15

POETRY.

MELROSE.

YE nameless builders of a bygone age,

Whose patient toil hath sanctified our land.

With holy relics,—ye whose 'cunning hand 'Raised this fair Abbey (now by senseless rage Of bigotry, that all-consuming brand, Spoiled of its ancient glory),—ye who planned Fountains and Rievaulx, would your names might stand In golden letters upon History's page !

Your art is dead ; we build up pile on pile, Setting our sails to catch the wayward nod Of public favour, greedy of men's praise ; Ye lived obscure, nor grudged to spend your days

On one small corner of a single aisle,—

And died content, because ye worked for God. A. T.