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110
Thomas Hill Green.
OXFORD, MARCH 26TH, 1882.
Hushed be the bells of all his city towers,
We need no sound to swell the deep “alas!”
Let Isis move unsobbing thro' the grass,
The sun shine still upon the Nuneham flowers.
He was of those rare hearts whom nature dowers
With unassuming quietude, his glass
Turned all reflection inwards, men might pass
Nor know the depth and splendour of his powers.
We need no sound to swell the deep “alas!”
Let Isis move unsobbing thro' the grass,
The sun shine still upon the Nuneham flowers.
He was of those rare hearts whom nature dowers
With unassuming quietude, his glass
Turned all reflection inwards, men might pass
Nor know the depth and splendour of his powers.
Hew him of granite, granite was his mind,
Give him the sword, for trenchant was his thrust,
And cast these purblind late philosophies
Prone at his feet who trod them into dust.
Then write him, “Patriot that no bribes could blind,
Prophet of Truth, sure Teacher of the Wise.”
Give him the sword, for trenchant was his thrust,
And cast these purblind late philosophies
Prone at his feet who trod them into dust.
Then write him, “Patriot that no bribes could blind,
Prophet of Truth, sure Teacher of the Wise.”
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