Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp. The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse. 1922.
From A Vision of OxfordWilliam Alexander, Archbishop of Armagh (18241911)
M
A passionless grief, that had nor tear nor wail,
Sat on her pure proud face, that gleam’d to Heaven
White as a moonlit sail.
Yet angels listening on the argent floor
Know that these lips have been proclaiming truth
Nine hundred years and more;
Gardens and groves and cloister’d halls are mine;
When quaff my sons from many a myrrhine cup
Draughts of ambrosial wine.
How day by day my bells are ringing clear,—
Mother of ancient lore and Attic wit
And discipline severe.
By fine attraction of my spirit brought
Up to the dark inexplicable fountains
That are the springs of thought:
The flowers that change not with the changing moon
Breathe round young hearts, as breathes the sycamore
About the bees in June.
To leave them bow’d before the sapphire Throne,
High o’er the haunts where dying Pleasure sings
With sweet and swan-like tone.
Progressive circles t’ward thought’s Sabbath rest,
And point beyond them to the many mansions
Where Christ is with the blest.