the hour of five
We entered the court of Westminster through the old school by way of a long , low passage , dimly lighted corridors , with glinting figures of old teachers in black gowns , moving like specters from the neighboring tombs . As we passed along by cloistered walls and mural monuments to vanished glory , we were soon within the interior of the grand old Abbey . Clustered columns of gigantic dimensions , with lofty arches springing from wall to nave met the eye of the beholder , and stunned by the solemn surroundings , vain man wonders at his own handiwork , trembling with doubt amid the monumental glory of Old Albion . The Abbey clock struck the hour of five as William and myself stood in deep contemplation at Poets ' corner . The reverberating tones of time echoed from nave to floor , through cloistered walls and columned aisles , noting the passing hour and ages , like billows of sound rolling over the graves of vanished splendor . Here crumble the dust and effigies of courtiers , warriors , statesmen , lords , dukes , kings , queens and authors ; and yet , there is no spot in the Abbey that holds such an abiding interest for mankind as the modest corner where lie the dust of noted poets and philosophers . The great and the heroic of the world may be bravely admired in lofty contemplation of nationality , but a feeling of fondness creeps over the traveler or reader when he bows at the grave of buried genius , while tears of remembrance even wash away the sensuous Bacchanalian escapades of impulsive , poetic revelers .