VARIOUS POEMS
Again I see the patient brow
That palm erewhile was wont to press;
And now 't is furrowed deep, and now
Made smooth with hope and tenderness.
For something of a formless grace
This moulded outline plays about;
A pitying flame, beyond our trace,
Breathes like a spirit, in and out,—
The love that cast an aureole
Round one who, longer to endure,
Called mirth to ease his ceaseless dole,
Yet kept his nobler purpose sure.
Lo, as I gaze, the statured man,
Built up from yon large hand, appears:
A type that Nature wills to plan
But once in all a people's years.
What better than this voiceless cast
To tell of such a one as he,
Since through its living semblance passed
The thought that bade a race be free!
1883.
"YE TOMBE OF YE POET CHAUCER"
Abbot and monks of Westminster
Here placed his tomb, in all men's view.
"Our Chaucer dead?"—King Harry said,—
"A mass for him, and burial due!"
This very aisle his footsteps knew;
Here Gower's benediction fell,—
Brother thou were and minstral trewe,
Now slepe thou wel.
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