John Albee (1833–1915)

HERE poise, like flowers on flowers, the butterflies;

The grasshopper on crookèd crutch leaps up,

The wild bees hum above the clover cup,

The fox-grape wreathes the fence in green disguise

Of ruin; and antique plants set out in tears,

Pink, guelder-rose, and myrtle’s purple bells

Struggle ’mid grass and their own wasting years

To show the grave that no inscription tells.

Here rest the bones of Francis Champernowne;

The blazonry of Norman kings he bore;

His fathers builded many a tower and town,

And after Senlac England’s lords. Now o’er

His island cairn the lonesome forests frown,

And sailless seas beat the untrodden shore.