"YE TOMBE OF YE POET CHAUCER"
Methinks, had Shakespeare lightly walked
Anear him in the minster old,
He would have heard,—his sleep had stirred
With dreams of wonders manifold;
Even though no sad vibration told
His ear when sounded Mary's knell,—
Though, when the mask on Charles laid hold,
He slumbered well.
In climes beyond his calendar
The latest century's splendors grow;
London is great,—the Abbey's state
A young world's eager wanderers know;
New songs, new minstrels, come and go;
Naught as of old outside his cell,—
Just as of old, within it low,
He slumbers well.
And now, when hawthorn is in flower,
And throstles sing as once sang he,
In this last age, on pilgrimage
Like mine from lands that distant be,
Come youths and maidens, summer-free,
Where shades of bards and warriors dwell,
And say, "The sire of minstrelsy
Here slumbers well;"
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