To thee, O man, the sun his truth hath given; The moon hath whispered in love her silvery dreams; Night hath unlockt the starry heaven, The sea the trust of his streams; And the rapture of woodland spring Is stayed in its flying, And Death cannot sting Its beauty undying.
Fear and Pity discontinue Their aching beams in colors fine; Pain and woe forego their might. After darkness thy leaping sight, After dumbness thy dancing sound, After fainting thy heavenly flight, After sorrow thy pleasure crowned: Oh, enter the garden of thy delight, Thy solace is found.
To us, O Queen of sinless grace, Now at our prayer unveil thy face; Awake again thy beauty free; Return and make our Graces three. And with our thronging strength to the ends of the earth Thy myriad-voicèd loveliness go forth, To lead o’er all the world’s wide ways God’s everlasting praise, And every heart inspire With the joy of man in the beauty of Love’s desire.
An effigy of brass, Trodden by careless feet Of worshippers that pass, Beautiful and complete,
Lieth in the sombre aisle Of this old church unwreckt, And still from modern style Shielded by kind neglect.
It shows a warrior armed: Across his iron breast His hands by death are charmed To leave his sword at rest,
Wherewith he led his men O’er sea, and smote to hell The astonisht Saracen, Nor doubted he did well.
Would we could teach our sons His trust in face of doom, Or give our bravest ones A comparable tomb:
Such as to look on shrives The heart of half its care, So in each line survives The spirit that made it fair;
So fair the characters With which the dusky scroll That tells his title stirs A requiem for his soul.
Yet dearer far to me, And brave as he, are they Who fight by land and sea For England at this day;
Whose vile memorials, In mournful marbles gilt, Deface the beauteous walls By growing glory built.
Heirs of our antique shrines, Sires of our future fame, Whose starry honor shines In many a noble name
Across the deathful days, Linked in the brotherhood That loves our country’s praise And lives for heavenly good.
The lonely season in lonely lands, when fled Are half the birds, and mists lie low, and the sun Is rarely seen, nor strayeth far from his bed; The short days pass unwelcomed one by one.