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His own and his dear scholars' souls to what pure souls should
dare; Bold to rebuke enthroned sin, with calm undazzled faith, Whether amid the pomp of courts, or on the bed of death; Firm againsi kingly terrors in his free country's cause, Faithful to God's anointed against a world's applause. Since then, what wars, what tumults, what change has Europe
seen ; But never since in Itchen's vale has war or tumult been. God's mercies have been with us, His favour still has blest The memories sweet and glorious deeds of the good men at rest: The many prayers, the daily praise, the nurture in the Word, Have not in vain ascended up before the gracious LORD: Nations, and thrones, and reverend laws, have melted like a
dream ; Yet Wykeham's works are green and fresh besile the crystal
stream. Four hundred years and fifty their rolling course have sped Since the first serge-clad scholar to Wykeham's feet was led ; And still his seventy faithful boys, in these presumptuous days, Learn the old truths, speak the old words, tread in the ancient
ways: Still for their daily orisons resounds the matin chime; Still linked in bands of brotherhood St. Catherine's steep they
climb; Still to their Sabbath worship they troop by Wykeham's tomb; Still in the summer twilight sing their sweet song of Home. And at th’appointed seasons, when Wykeham's bounties claim The full heart's solemn tribute from those who love his name, Still shall his white-robed children, as age on age rolls by, At Oxford and at Winchester, give thanks to God Most Iligh: And amid kings and martyrs shedding down glorious light, While, the deep-echoing organ swells to the vaulted height,
With grateful thoughts o'erflowing at the mercies they behold, They shall praise their sainted fathers, the famous men of old.
Sir Roundell Palmer.
37. — HELLVELLYN. I CLIMB’d the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn,
Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd misty and wide; All was still, save by fits when the eagle was yelling,
And starting around me the echoes replied. On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,
When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer had died. Dark green was the spot ’mid the brown mountain-heather,
Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretch'd in decay,
Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay.
And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.
When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start; How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?
Unhonour'd the Pilgrim from life should depart!
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,
And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming; In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners are beaming; Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming,
Lamenting a Chief of the people should fall. But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,
To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb;
And draws his last sob by the side of his dam.
38. — FIDELITY.
It was a cove, a huge recess,
39. — EPITAPH ON A HARE.
HERE lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,
Nor swifter greyhound follow, Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,
Nor ear heard huntsman's hallo', Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who, nursed with tender care, And to 'domestic bounds confined, Was still a wild Jack-hare.
Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night, He did it with a jealous look,
And, when he could, would bite.