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Rh He fed his thought thy ancient towers among, Making it clear and simple, of a fall That catches common hearing. Well he wrote, And in the lists of fame his name is filed– A Theologic Wordsworth, who took note How God in all the world Himself has soul’d. He sleeps in thy cathedral, ’mong the dust Of many noble fathers, whose pure fame Is its best consecration, and whose hearts, Still mingling with its worship, light the flame Of pure devotion, where the heart’s strong trust, One with their own in its pure heavenward aim, The letter from the spirit wisely parts, Finding the eternal substance, the bright Name In which all worship centres, and all rest.
 * Nor in these spheres alone hast thou been blest,

Thy stock’s been fruitful in a varied life, Varied, yet kindred; the same generous fires Have run through all thy heroes, the old strife Finding new objects, as the changing times Have changed in their ambitions, giving zest For things more purely noble–Art and Thought, Destined to lead the world a purer way, And ransom it from evil, consecrate With all the true pure life religion yields. So the brave artist, Watson, crowned thy state– A lowly boy, inspired by Art’s pure ray– Bringing fresh garlands from her fairy field, To honour thy old walls, thy towers grey, Flushing afresh with the new vivid light Of the worlds onward genius, and his own. Peace to his memory! He was a true knight