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THE PROCESSION.
87
Borne from their dwellings, green and lone,
There were flowers of the woods on the pathway strown;
And wheels that crush'd as they swept along—
Oh! what doth the violet amidst the throng?
I saw where a bright Procession pass'd
The gates of a Minster, old and vast;
And a king to his crowning place was led,
Through a sculptur'd line of the warrior dead.
I saw, far gleaming, the long array
Of trophies, on those high tombs that lay,
And the coloured light, that wrapp'd them all,
Rich, deep, and sad, as a royal pall.
But a lowlier grave soon won mine eye
Away from th' ancestral pageantry:
A grave by the lordly Minster's gate,
Unhonour'd, and yet not desolate.
