Classic Poem

Wisdom , and pomp, and valour,
And love, and martial glory —
These gleam up from the shadows
Of England's elder story.

If thou wouldst pierce those shadows
Dark on her life of old,
Follow where march her minstrels,
With music sweet and bold.

Right faithfully they guide us
The darksome way along,
Driving the ghosts of ruin
With joyous harp and song.

They raise up clearest visions,
To greet us every where —
They bring the brave old voices
To stir the sunny air.

We see the ships of conquest
White on the narrow sea;
We mark from Battle Abbey,
The plumes of Normandy.

We see the royal Rufus
Go out the chase to lead —
Wat Tyrel's flying arrow —
The dead king's flying steed.

We go with gallant Henry,
Stealing to Woodstock bower,
To meet his gentle mistress,
In twilight's starry hour.

We see Blondel and Richard,
We hear the lays they sing;
We mark the dames adjudging
Betwixt the bard and King.

We join the iron Barons,
Doing that famous deed —
Wringing the great old charter
From John at Runnymeade.

We ride with Harry Monmouth
On Shrewsbury's bloody bounds;
We hear the fat knight's moral,
On Percy Hotspur's wounds.

We mark the bannered Roses —
The red rose, and the white,
And Crookback's barded charger
Foaming in Barnet fight.

We see bluff Harry Tudor,
To royal Windsor ride,
With fair-necked Bullen reining
A palfrey at his side.

We join Queen Bess, the virgin,
And prancingly go forth,
To hold that stately revel
At stately Kenilworth.

We join the ruder revels,
Under the greenwood tree,
Where outlaw songs are chaunted,
And cans clink merrily.

We join the curtal friar,
And doughty Robin Hood,
And Scathelock, and the miller,
At feast in green Sherwood.

We greet Maid Marian bringing
The collops of the deer,
And pitchers of metheglin
To crown the woodland cheer.

We lie down with the robbers
At coming of the dark,
We rise, with their uprising,
At singing of the lark.

And, blending with his matins,
We hear the abbey chimes —
The chimes of the stately abbeys
Of the proud priestly times.


And owe we not these visions
Fresh to the natural eye —
This presence in old story —
To the good art and high? —

The high art of the poet,
The maker of the lays?
Doth not his magic lead us
Back to the ancient days?

For evermore be honoured
The voices sweet, and bold,
That thus can charm the shadows
From the true life of old.