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 | Poetical Works of Lionel Johnson |  |
WINCHESTER CLOSE
To the Rev. H. C. Dickens.
Holy have been the wanderings here: and here
The beauty hath been shown, of holiness.
Nine hundred years ago, Frithstan the Saint
Put off his mitre, in a rough cowl hiding
The snows of age and care, to go at eve
Among the quiet graves with orison.
The sun fell, and the gentle winds made stir.
By graves, ah! by how many graves, he went,
Old in war's day: then said he: Requiem
Æternam dona eis, Domine!
Eternal rest, eternal rest, O Lord!
Give Thou these dead. The heart of earth, the hearts
Of poor dead, lapped in earth, heard: slowly grew
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Beneath his feet grew voices of the dead.
And faint, each voice: but sounding as one sea,
Together cried the ghostly multitude,
Cried hungrily to that great prayer: Amen!
Immeasurably surged the Amen: till sank
Softly away the voices of the dead,
Softly: they slept in the cold earth once more
The stilly sleep, glad to have cried that cry.
Frithstan's white face thrilled upward to his God.
1890.
| Poetical Works of Lionel Johnson | |