"YE TOMBE OF YE POET CHAUCER"
The Thames, between their closes green,
Parted these warblers breast from breast,—
The gravest from the joyfulest
Whose notes the matin chorus swell:
A league divided, east and west,
They slumber well.
Is there no care in holy ground
The world's deep undertone to hear?
Can this strong sleep our Chaucer keep
When May-time buds and blossoms peer?
Less strange that many a sceptred year,
While the twin houses towered and fell,
Alike through England's pride and fear,
He slumbered well.
The envious Roses woefully
By turns a bleeding kingdom sway;
Thrones topple down,—to robe and crown
Who comes at last must hew his way.
No sound of all that piteous fray,
Nor of its ceasing, breaks the spell;
Still on, to great Eliza's day,
He slumbers well.
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