Page:Ethel Churchill 2.pdf/3



What memories haunt the venerable pile It is the mighty treasury of the past, Where England garners up her glorious dead. The ancient chivalry are sleeping there— Men who sought out the Turk in Palestine, And laid the crescent low before the cross. The sea has sent her victories: those aisles Wave with the banners of a thousand fights. There, too, are the mind's triumphs—in those tombs Sleep poets and philosophers, whose light Is on the heaven of our intellect. The very names inscribed on those old walls Make the place sacred.

, my dear uncle, that we shall all now come to our senses—that is, those who have any senses to which they could come—