Wiser the silent worshipper that cons
Their words for wisdom that will never die.
Unto the favourite of the passing hour
Erect the statue and parade the bust;
Whereon decisive Time will slowly shower
Oblivion’s refuse and disdainful dust.
The Monarchs of the Mind, self-sceptred Kings,
Need no memento to transmit their name:
Throned on their thoughts and high imaginings,
They are the Lords, not sycophants of Fame.
Raise pedestals to perishable stuff:
Gods for themselves are monuments enough.
The stars, the seasons,The mighty mainland,And whale-ploughed water,By God the MakerWere formed and fashioned,Then God made England.He made it shapely,With land-locked inlets,And gray-green nesses;With rivers roamingFrom fair-leafed forestsThrough windless valleys,Past plain and pasture,To sloping shingle:Thus God made England.Then like to the long-backed bounding billows,That foam and followIn rolling ridges,Before and after,To bluff and headland,Hither there…
Halting a moment from that task of doom.Adown his swollen cheeks ran streams of sweatDripping from thick-drenched locks; and watery beadsGathered and stood on his stupendous limbs.The sinews of his arm, like gnarled knotsOn hollow bark of legendary oak,Credentials of incalculable years,Bulged up, and in his horny hands outspreadUpon his wrinkled knees, the arching veinsGlittered…
Companionship beside the household fire,And common cares that train one to endure.‘Tis not your senses, but your self, I want,Kinship of vision, sympathy of mind,That so the bond be based on adamant,And Love made fast by sanctities that bind.Yet do not think insensible my gazeTo delicate loveliness of form and face,But that I covet in…
There stood in a red-roofed Breton townSnugly nestled ‘twixt sea and down,A chapel for simple souls to meet,Nightly, and sing with voices sweet,Ave Maria!There was an idiot, palsied, bleared,With unkempt locks and a matted beard,Hunched from the cradle, vacant-eyed,And whose head kept rolling from side to side;Yet who, when the sunset-glow grew dim,Joined with the…
And, in the Garden that I love,I hear the sound of Christmas Bells.From hamlet hollow, village height,The silvery Message seems to start,And, far away, its notes to-nightAre surging through the city’s heart.Assurance clear to those who fretO’er vanished Faith and feelings fled,That not in English homes is yetTradition dumb, or Reverence dead:Nor, when anew from…
With fancy like Ithuriel’s spear,A judgment proof ‘gainst rage or fear,Heart firm through many a stormy year,And conscience calm in rest.Why should I let my wayward feetCross the fair threshold of thy life?My hopes and cares of little worthDrag down thy heavenlier part to earth,And, like strange discord marring mirth,Fill thy sweet soul with strife?But…
