Classic Poem

I STOOD sometime within that tiny room
Where thou, most saintly Herbert, oft didst write,
Where thou didst “relish versing” and indite
That fragrant wreath of poesy whose bloom
Was for thy King; whose subtle sweet perfume
Like floating incense still preserves its might.
Here were thy singing robes kept out of sight
And here thy spirit rose on worship's plume.

And then I trod thy verdant lawn to where
The river flows with peaceful placid wave;
And thine eyes saw it flow, thine eyes of prayer
In whose clear depths there was that fount of song
Which still flows as this stream, though thou art gone;
And here the weary come their hearts to lave.