Page:Old Castles.djvu/17

He fed his thought thy ancient towers among,
Making it clear and simple, of a fall
That catches common hearing. Well he wrote,
And in the lists of fame his name is filed–
A Theologic Wordsworth, who took note
How God in all the world Himself has soul’d.
He sleeps in thy cathedral, ’mong the dust
Of many noble fathers, whose pure fame
Is its best consecration, and whose hearts,
Still mingling with its worship, light the flame
Of pure devotion, where the heart’s strong trust,
One with their own in its pure heavenward aim,
The letter from the spirit wisely parts,
Finding the eternal substance, the bright Name
In which all worship centres, and all rest.
Nor in these spheres alone hast thou been blest,
Thy stock’s been fruitful in a varied life,
Varied, yet kindred; the same generous fires
Have run through all thy heroes, the old strife
Finding new objects, as the changing times
Have changed in their ambitions, giving zest
For things more purely noble–Art and Thought,
Destined to lead the world a purer way,
And ransom it from evil, consecrate
With all the true pure life religion yields.
So the brave artist, Watson, crowned thy state–
A lowly boy, inspired by Art’s pure ray–
Bringing fresh garlands from her fairy field,
To honour thy old walls, thy towers grey,
Flushing afresh with the new vivid light
Of the worlds onward genius, and his own.
Peace to his memory! He was a true knight