If ever on polluted walls Heaven's red right arm in vengeance falls,-- If e'er its justice wraps in flame The black abodes of sin and shame, That justice, in its own good time, Shall visit for so foul a crime, Ope desolation's floodgate wide, And blast thee, Netley, in thy pride! Lo where it comes!--the tempest lours,-- It bursts on thy devoted towers; Ruthless Tudor's bloated form Rides on the blast, and guides the storm; I hear the sacrilegious cry, "Down with the nests, and the rooks will fly!" Down! down they come--a fearful fall-- Arch, and pillar, and roof-tree, and all, Stained pane, and sculptured stone, There they lie on the greensward strown-- Mouldering walls remain alone! Shaven crown, Bombazeen gown, Mitre, and Crozier, and all are flown! And yet, fair Netley, as I gaze Upon that grey and mouldering wall, The glories of thy palmy days Its very stones recall!-- They "come like shadows, so depart"-- I see thee as thou wert--and art-- Sublime in ruin!--grand in woe! Lone refuge of the owl and bat; No voice awakes thine echoes now! No sound--Good Gracious!--what was that? Was it the moan, The parting groan Of her who died forlorn and alone, Embedded in mortar, and bricks, and stone?-- --Full and clear On my listening ear It comes--again--near, and more near-- Why 'zooks! it's the popping of Ginger Beer! --I rush to the door-- I tread the floor, By Abbots and Abbesses trodden before, In the good old chivalric days of yore, And what see I there?-- In a rush-bottom'd chair A hag, surrounded by crockery-ware, Vending, in cups, to the credulous throng, A nasty decoction miscall'd "Souchong,"-- And a squeaking fiddle and "wry-necked fife" Are screeching away, for the life!--for the life!-- Danced to by "All the World and his Wife." Tag, Rag, and Bobtail, are capering there, Worse scene, I ween, than Bartlemy Fair!-- Two or three Chimney-sweeps, two or three Clowns, Playing at "pitch and toss," sport their "Browns," Two or three damsels, frank and free, Are ogling, and smiling, and sipping Bohea. Parties below, and parties above, Some making tea, and some making love. Then the "toot--toot--toot" Of that vile demi-flute,-- The detestable din Of that cracked violin, And the odours of "Stout," and tobacco, and gin! "--Dear me!" I exclaim'd, "what a place to be in!" And I said to the person who drove my "shay," (A very intelligent man, by the way,) "This, all things considered, is rather too gay! It don't suit my humour,--so take me away! Dancing! and drinking!--cigar and song! If not profanation, it's 'coming it strong,' And I really consider it all very wrong.--