Page:Poet Lore, volume 34, 1923.djvu/630

He hath outsoared our narrow island's bounds
And borne our fame to farther Western shores!
That is indubitable! That stamps him great!
Dearer than Milton; priced above Keats
He comes to lay his wearied dust in here
Where Chaucer worshipped and where Spencer prayed!
What does England need
More than a poet leaving nought behind!
And Mr. Bulfin tells me, on his honour,
That not one word in manuscript or print
Of this great poet—not one word in type
Or writing at dictation, lives to call forth
The maiden's blush! The youngest Person may
Retire with Him—with what of Him remains!—
To her pure chamber and rest unpolluted!
He hath outsoared all grossness; He alone
Alone among the poets of our land
Banquets immaculate. Our greatest, last!
Our greatest! Purest! Last! In truth, the Last . . .
For he's the last shall ever be brought here
To lie in our tiny hallowed Poet's Corner
That now is fitted up with deathless dust.
I've prayed for guidance as to the bestowal
Of these last sacred inches; dreadful trust:
To guard the storied purlieus of this fane
Where Shakespeare prayed and Bacon thought on science
From the intrusion of all sacrilegious
And prurient dust! But, now, ah now! All's well!
All's well with England and her storied shrine!
England's Last Poet is impeccable!
Purest, most great and last! Hail and Farewell!