At Penshurst

Not the dark shade of thy majestic groves,
Not the rich verdure of thine oaken bowers,
Not thy fair winding stream that wanton roves
By tufted lawns, and sloping banks of flowers;
Not e'en those awful and time-honour'd towers,
That in their grey old age yet seem to shine
As bright with glory as in those high hours
When some new trophy of the illustrious line,
By high-soul'd chiefs, and bards of strains divine
O'er the arch'd portal day by day was hung:
Nor yet that sacred oak, the undying shrine
Of Sidney's name by all the Muses sung,
Have lured us, Penshurst, here: a holier shade
Haunts thee. We come to pray where Hammond prayed.
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