 | Teresa and Other Poems |  |
76
G. D. W. D.
Or e'er a blossom blanched the thorn,
When scarce from winter's wing
Were shed the last cold plumes that scorn
Earth's promise of the spring,
When scarce from winter's wing
Were shed the last cold plumes that scorn
Earth's promise of the spring,
By eighty summers overweighed
With patriarchal bloom,
One silver head we gently laid
Within the marble gloom.
With patriarchal bloom,
One silver head we gently laid
Within the marble gloom.
No hollow form or flattering show
In yon dark pomp appears,
No selfish mourners force the flow
Of ceremonious tears;
In yon dark pomp appears,
No selfish mourners force the flow
Of ceremonious tears;
For never kindlier heart, more just,
And free from sordid stain,
Was gathered to the glorious dust
Of Ina's ancient fane.
And free from sordid stain,
Was gathered to the glorious dust
Of Ina's ancient fane.
O comrades! guard his memory well
In Honour's golden urn;
Such spirits cease, but who may tell
If ever such return;
In Honour's golden urn;
Such spirits cease, but who may tell
If ever such return;
If noble manners shall engage,
And reverence rule as yore,
Or from this mammon-minded age
Pass, and be seen no more?
And reverence rule as yore,
Or from this mammon-minded age
Pass, and be seen no more?
77
By simple dignity sublime,
By tenderness untold,
By man's best triumph over time—
The heart that grows not old,—
By tenderness untold,
By man's best triumph over time—
The heart that grows not old,—
By chivalry of days long past,
We hailed within our ken
A star late-risen—Oh, not the last!—
Of England's gentle men;
We hailed within our ken
A star late-risen—Oh, not the last!—
Of England's gentle men;
Who loved life's bounteous cup to drain,
Filled from no earthy bowl,
Nor grew by glut of worldly gain
A bankrupt of the soul,
Filled from no earthy bowl,
Nor grew by glut of worldly gain
A bankrupt of the soul,
Nor soared on folly's waxen wing,
Nor sank in vile repose,
Nor plucked at pride, the meanest thing
That in God's garden grows.
Nor sank in vile repose,
Nor plucked at pride, the meanest thing
That in God's garden grows.
For him, so courteous to his peers,
But kindest to the poor,
Grief's choicest flowers are fed with tears
By many a cottage-door.
But kindest to the poor,
Grief's choicest flowers are fed with tears
By many a cottage-door.
Ay, though the ripe shock falleth well,
And riper fall but few,
Not oft hath boomed yon funeral-bell
So dear a loss to rue;
And riper fall but few,
Not oft hath boomed yon funeral-bell
So dear a loss to rue;
Nor shall our inmost hearts reprove
A nobler tribute yet,
That none e'er knew him, but to love,
Nor loved him, to forget.
A nobler tribute yet,
That none e'er knew him, but to love,
Nor loved him, to forget.
| Teresa and Other Poems | |