Page:Ethel Churchill 2.pdf/147

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The fountain's low singing is heard on the wind, Like a melody bringing sweet fancies to mind; Away in the distance is heard the far sound From the streets of the city that compass it round, Like the echo of mountains, or ocean's deep call: Yet that fountain's low singing is heard over all.

The turf and the terrace slope down to the tide Of the Thames, that sweeps onward a world at its side; And dark the horizon with mast and with sail Of the thousand tall ships that have weather'd the gale; While beyond the arched bridge the old abbey appears, Where England has garnered—the glories of years.

There are lights in the casement—how weary the ray That asks from the night-time the toils of the day! I fancy I see the brow bent o'er the page, Whose youth wears the paleness and wrinkles of age; What struggles, what hopes, what despair may have been, Where sweep those dark branches of shadowy green!

last gleams of a summer sunset were reddening amid the topmast boughs of the