The general style of this <g>Church</g> is that of the reign of Henry III., and the present building is doubtlessly coeval with that monarch’s foundation. It formed the northern side of the abbey, and was, as usual, cruciform, having north and south transepts. The walls of the south transept remain nearly perfect to the roof; the south wall of the church also remains in nearly its whole elevation; but the north wall, which contained the larger windows, is in a less perfect condition, and the site of the north transept is only marked by a confused heap of rubbish, overgrown with trees and brambles. The east and west ends of the church are also standing. The north wall is supported externally by low buttresses; and some traces of buildings, with the heaps of rubbish on the ground, lead us to suppose that there was one or more smaller external buildings, perhaps chapels, attached. The <g>West Window</g>, as well as the great eastern window, appears to have been, when perfect and filled with stained glass, extremely handsome and [Illustration] striking. The springings which supported the arches of the groined roof are still visible; and until a comparatively recent period, part of the roof itself remained standing, and among the ruins “various arms and devices were to be traced.” Its ruins, mixed with those of the columns which separated the aisles from the nave, still encumber the floor in a picturesque manner, partly covered with shrubs and plants, and held firmly together by the roots of lofty trees which have grown upon them. The old lady who has taken her station at the entrance of the abbey, to act as a guide to the interior, regards these shapeless heaps with peculiar attachment: and she fails not to tell the visitor, in accents of sorrowful indignation, of the recent depredations of a barbarian workman who was sent to gather up the “loose stones,” and who did not hesitate to lay his sacrilegious hands on portions of that which was not loose. Vulgar tradition points out the largest of these masses as a monument of divine retribution on the wretch whose avarice led him to spoil the pious work of his forefathers; and it is believed that he lies buried beneath the rubbish which his own hand had dragged down. “Here too (belief could old tradition claim), Where swells the rocky mound in shapeless heaps, (His name now lost, his guilt divulged by fame,) Some rude dismantler of this abbey sleeps. Long, long in thought the patient earth he cursed, That bore the fabric’s then unbroken spires; Long wish’d the power to bid volcanoes burst, Or call from heaven thought-executing fires. ‘Wide wave,’ he cried, ‘all bright with golden grain The neighbouring vales, while this proud cumbrous mass For many a barren furlong chills the plain, And draws with idle zeal the crowds that pass.