Byland abbey was founded in 1177, by the famous Roger de Mowbray, who amply endowed it, and was buried here. He retired hither after being perplexed and fatigued with useless crusades, and suffering the deprivation of nearly all his property by Henry II. Martin Stapylton, Esq. the present proprietor of Byland, discovered from some ancient manuscripts the precise situation in the ruin, where were deposited the bones of the illustrious chieftain; and after removing these relics of mortality which had been hid for six hundred years, he conveyed them in his carriage to Myton, and interred them in the church-yard. The abbey of Byland is memorable for having given concealment, (though not a sanctuary!) to Edward II. who, when flying from his enemies in the north, in 1322, took shelter here, and was surprised by them when at dinner, narrowly escaping, by the swiftness of his horse, to York; and leaving his money, plate, and privy seal, a booty to the savage and exterminating Scots. Byland abbey has nearly disappeared; the only perfect remains are the west end, a fine specimen of Saxon and Gothic, and a small portion of the choir. The church, its transepts, north and south aisles, and chancel, are gone; and the dormitory, refectory, cloisters, &c. have scarcely left any trace of their gorgeous existence. The lonely ash and sturdy briar vegetate over the ashes of barons and prelates; and the unfeeling peasants intrude their rustic games on the holy place, ignorant of its former importance, and unconscious of the poetical feeling which its remains inspire. We quitted its interior to inspect a gateway situated at a considerable distance from the principal ruin, through which the abbey appears to great advantage about four hundred yards beyond this arch.
[5] For an interesting account of the founding and a view of this abbey, see the MIRROR for Sept. 30, 1826.
ON VIEWING THE RUINS OF BYLAND ABBEY THROUGH THE DETACHED GATEWAY ON THE WEST.
Oh! beauteous picture! thou art ruin's theme, And envious time the Gothic canvass sears. Thy soft decay now almost wakes my tears, And art thou mutable? or do I dream? The transept moulders to its mound again; The fluted window buries in its fall The rainbow flooring of the fretted hall; And long the altar on that earth has lain. Now could I weep to see each mourning weed So deeply dark around thy wasting brow; If life and art are then so brief--I bow With less of sorrow to what is decreed: Ye faded cloisters--ye departing aisles! Your day is past, and dim your glory smiles!