Classic Poem

Friend, in whom ancient stems of note,
The Mowbray and Fitzalan, meet,
Who work'd their wills and held their own
Since first the shatter'd English throne
Gave the stern Norman surer seat;

Wild days of castle-buttress'd crag,
And long-roof'd abbey in the dell,
Blue flash of steel-clad war, with gay
Pennons toss'd foam-like o'er the fray,
And woodland visionary cell,

And the fresh face of holy Art:-
—Another task our times pursue
Than Europe in her youthful age!
Yet from the past our heritage
Descends; we are not wholly new.

Nature and Man, two streams from one,
Feed us with knowledge; and her powers
Pass into us, and brace the mind:
Yet most we owe to what our kind
Has done or thought in earlier hours;

For heart to heart speaks closest, best.
Nor has man higher task than he
Who from old treasures flung away
Creates new beauty for to-day,
And heirlooms for the far to-be.

Then at thy noble function toil,
Thine own, not what the ancients tried;
Let the pure form in clearness grow,
The happy tints contrasting glow,
Till all be fix'd and glorified.

A narrow field the men of old
With heaven's own hues and forms inlaid;
Their's, the strict end to teach the soul:
Our's, free from outward-set control,
To face all nature, unafraid.

That partial range of perfect skill
Enlarge to fit our wider aim,
And through the pleased eye touch the heart;
Scaling the hard-won heights of Art,
And adding honour to thy name.