There　is　something　extremely　picturesque　in　the　tombs　of　these
  adventurers；　decorated　as　they　are　with　rude　armorial　bearings　and
  Gothic　sculpture。　They　comport　with　the　antiquated　chapels　in　which
  they　are　generally　found；　and　in　considering　them；　the　imagination
  is　apt　to　kindle　with　the　legendary　associations；　the　romantic
  fiction；　the　chivalrous　pomp　and　pageantry；　which　poetry　has　spread
  over　the　wars　for　the　sepulchre　of　Christ。　They　are　the　relics　of
  times　utterly　gone　by；　of　beings　passed　from　recollection；　of
  customs　and　manners　with　which　ours　have　no　affinity。　They　are　like
  objects　from　some　strange　and　distant　land；　of　which　we　have　no
  certain　knowledge；　and　about　which　all　our　conceptions　are　vague　and
  visionary。　There　is　something　extremely　solemn　and　awful　in　those
  effigies　on　Gothic　tombs；　extended　as　if　in　the　sleep　of　death；　or
  in　the　supplication　of　the　dying　hour。　They　have　an　effect
  infinitely　more　impressive　on　my　feelings　than　the　fanciful　attitudes；
  the　overwrought　conceits；　and　allegorical　groups；　which　abound　on
  modern　monuments。　I　have　been　struck；　also；　with　the　superiority　of
  many　of　the　old　sepulchral　inscriptions。　There　was　a　noble　way；　in
  former　times；　of　saying　things　simply；　and　yet　saying　them　proudly；
  and　I　do　not　know　an　epitaph　that　breathes　a　loftier　consciousness
  of　family　worth　and　honorable　lineage；　than　one　which　affirms；　of　a
  noble　house；　that　〃all　the　brothers　were　brave；　and　all　the　sisters
  virtuous。〃
  In　the　opposite　transept　to　Poet's　Corner　stands　a　monument　which　is
  among　the　most　renowned　achievements　of　modern　art；　but　which　to　me
  appears　horrible　rather　than　sublime。　It　is　the　tomb　of　Mrs。
  Nightingale；　by　Roubillac。　The　bottom　of　the　monument　is　represented
  as　throwing　open　its　marble　doors；　and　a　sheeted　skeleton　is
  starting　forth。　The　shroud　is　falling　from　his　fleshless　frame　as　he
  launches　his　dart　at　his　victim。　She　is　sinking　into　her　affrighted
  husband's　arms；　who　strives；　with　vain　and　frantic　effort；　to　avert
  the　blow。　The　whole　is　executed　with　terrible　truth　and　spirit；　we
  almost　fancy　we　hear　the　gibbering　yell　of　triumph　bursting　from　the
  distended　jaws　of　the　spectre。…　But　why　should　we　thus　seek　to
  clothe　death　with　unnecessary　terrors；　and　to　spread　horrors　round　the
  tomb　of　those　we　love？　The　grave　should　be　surrounded　by　every　thing
  that　might　inspire　tenderness　and　veneration　for　the　dead；　or　that
  might　win　the　living　to　virtue。　It　is　the　place；　not　of　disgust　and
  dismay；　but　of　sorrow　and　meditation。
  While　wandering　about　these　gloomy　vaults　and　silent　aisles；
  studying　the　records　of　the　dead；　the　sound　of　busy　existence　from
  without　occasionally　reaches　the　ear；…　the　rumbling　of　the　passing
  equipage；　the　murmur　of　the　multitude；　or　perhaps　the　light　laugh　of
  pleasure。　The　contrast　is　striking　with　the　deathlike　repose　around：
  and　it　has　a　strange　effect　upon　the　feelings；　thus　to　hear　the　surges
  of　active　life　hurrying　along；　and　beating　against　the　very　walls　of
  the　sepulchre。
  I　continued　in　this　way　to　move　from　tomb　to　tomb；　and　from　chapel
  to　chapel。　The　day　was　gradually　wearing　away；　the　distant　tread　of
  loiterers　about　the　abbey　grew　less　and　less　frequent；　the
  sweet…tongued　bell　was　summoning　to　evening　prayers；　and　I　saw　at　a
  distance　the　choristers；　in　their　white　surplices；　crossing　the
  aisle　and　entering　the　choir。　I　stood　before　the　entrance　to　Henry　the
  Seventh's　chapel。　A　flight　of　steps　lead　up　to　it；　through　a　deep
  and　gloomy；　but　magnificent　arch。　Great　gates　of　brass；　richly　and
  delicately　wrought；　turn　heavily　upon　their　hinges；　as　if　proudly
  reluctant　to　admit　the　feet　of　common　mortals　into　this　most
  gorgeous　of　sepulchres。
  On　entering；　the　eye　is　astonished　by　the　pomp　of　architecture；
  and　the　elaborate　beauty　of　sculptured　detail。　The　very　walls　are
  wrought　into　universal　ornament；　incrusted　with　tracery；　and　scooped
  into　niches；　crowded　with　the　statues　of　saints　and　martyrs。　Stone
  seems；　by　the　cunning　labor　of　the　chisel；　to　have　been　robbed　of
  its　weight　and　density；　suspended　aloft；　as　if　by　magic；　and　the
  fretted　roof　achieved　with　the　wonderful　minuteness　and　airy
  security　of　a　cobweb。
  Along　the　sides　of　the　chapel　are　the　lofty　stalls　of　the　Knights　of
  the　Bath；　richly　carved　of　oak；　though　with　the　grotesque
  decorations　of　Gothic　architecture。　On　the　pinnacles　of　the　stalls　are
  affixed　the　helmets　and　crests　of　the　knights；　with　their　scarfs　and
  swords；　and　above　them　are　suspended　their　banners；　emblazoned　with
  armorial　bearings；　and　contrasting　the　splendor　of　gold　and　purple　and
  crimson；　with　the　cold　gray　fretwork　of　the　roof。　In　the　midst　of　this
  grand　mausoleum　stands　the　sepulchre　of　its　founder；…　his　effigy；　with
  that　of　his　queen；　extended　on　a　sumptuous　tomb；　and　the　whole
  surrounded　by　a　superbly…wrought　brazen　railing。
  There　is　a　sad　dreariness　in　this　magnificence；　this　strange　mixture
  of　tombs　and　trophies；　these　emblems　of　living　and　aspiring
  ambition；　close　beside　mementos　which　show　the　dust　and　oblivion　in
  which　all　must　sooner　or　later　terminate。　Nothing　impresses　the　mind
  with　a　deeper　feeling　of　loneliness；　than　to　tread　the　silent　and
  deserted　scene　of　former　throng　and　pageant。　On　looking　round　on　the
  vacant　stalls　of　the　knights　and　their　esquires；　and　on　the　rows　of
  dusty　but　gorgeous　banners　that　were　once　borne　before　them；　my
  imagination　conjured　up　the　scene　when　this　hall　was　bright　with　the
  valor　and　beauty　of　the　land；　glittering　with　the　splendor　of　jewelled
  rank　and　military　array；　alive　with　the　tread　of　many　feet　and　the　hum
  of　an　admiring　multitude。　All　had　passed　away；　the　silence　of　death
  had　settled　again　upon　the　place；　interrupted　only　by　the　casual
  chirping　of　birds；　which　had　found　their　way　into　the　chapel；　and
  built　their　nests　among　its　friezes　and　pendants…　sure　sign　of
  solitariness　and　desertion。
  When　I　read　the　names　inscribed　on　the　banners；　they　were　those　of
  men　scattered　far　and　wide　about　the　world；　some　tossing　upon
  distant　seas；　some　under　arms　in　distant　lands；　some　mingling　in　the
  busy　intrigues　of　courts　and　cabinets；　all　seeking　to　deserve　one　more
  distinction　in　this　mansion　of　shadowy　honors：　the　melancholy　reward
  of　a　monument。
  Two　small　aisles　on　each　side　of　this　chapel　present　a　touching
  instance　of　the　equality　of　the　grave；　which　brings　down　the　oppressor
  to　a　level　with　the　oppressed；　and　mingles　the　dust　of　the　bitterest
  enemies　together。　In　one　is　the　sepulchre　of　the　haughty　Elizabeth；　in
  the　other　is　that　of　her　victim；　the　lovely　and　unfortunate　Mary。
  Not　an　hour　in　the　day　but　some　ejaculation　of　pity　is　uttered　over
  the　fate　of　the　latter；　mingled　with　indignation　at　her　oppressor。　The
  walls　of　Elizabeth's　sepulchre　continually　echo　with　the　sighs　of
  sympathy　heaved　at　the　grave　of　her　rival。
  A　peculiar　melancholy　reigns　over　the　aisle　where　Mary　lies
  buried。　The　light　struggles　dimly　through　windows　darkened　by　dust。
  The　greater　part　of　the　place　is　in　deep　shadow；　and　the　walls　are
  stained　and　tinted　by　time　and　weather。　A　marble　figure　of　Mary　is
  stretched　upon　the　tomb；　round　which　is　an　iron　railing；　much
  corroded；　bearing　her　national　emblem…　the　thistle。　I　was　weary　with
  wandering；　and　sat　down　to　rest　myself　by　the　monument；　revolving　in
  my　mind　the　chequered　and　disastrous　story　of　poor　Mary。
  The　sound　of　casual　footsteps　had　ceased　from　the　abbey。　I　could
  only　hear；　now　and　then；　the　distant　voice　of　the　priest　repeating　the
  evening　service；　and　the　faint　responses　of　the　choir；　these　paused
  for　a　time；　and　all　was　hushed。　The　stillness；　the　desertion　and
  obscurity　that　were　gradually　prevailing　around；　gave　a　deeper　and
  more　solemn　interest　to　the　place：
  For　in　the　silent　grave　no　conversation；
  No　joyful　tread　of　friends；　no　voice　of　lovers；
  No　careful　father's　counsel…　nothing's　heard；
  For　nothing　is；　but　all　oblivion；
  Dust；　and　an　endless　darkness。
  Suddenly　the　notes　of　the　deep…laboring　organ　burst　upon　the　ear；
  falling　with　doubled　and　redoubled　intensity；　and　rolling；　as　it　were；
  huge　billows　of　sound。　How　well　do　their　volume　and　grandeur　accord
  with　this　mighty　building！　With　what　pomp　do　they　swell　through　its
  vast　vaults；　and　breathe　their　awful　harmony　through　these　caves　of
  death；　and　make　the　silent　sepulchre　vocal！…　And　now　they　rise　in
  triumph　and　acclamation；　heaving　higher　and　higher　their　accordant
  notes；　and　piling　sound　on　sound。…　And　now　they　pause；　and　the　soft
  voices　of　the　choir　break　out　into　sweet　gushes　of　melody；　they　soar
  aloft；　and　warble　along　the　roof；　and　seem　to　play　about　these　lofty
  vaults　like　the　pure　airs　of　heaven。　Again　the　pealing　organ　heaves
  its　thrilling　thunders；　compressing　air　into　music；　and　rolling　it
  forth　upon　the　soul。　What　long…drawn　cadences！　What　solemn　sweeping
  concords！　It　grows　more　and　more　dense　and　powerful…　it　fills　the　vast
  pile；　and　seems　to　jar　the　very　walls…　the　ear　is　stunned…　the
  senses　are　overwhelmed。　And　now　it　is　windi