Page:Poems, now first collected, Stedman, 1897.djvu/31

"YE TOMBE OF YE POET CHAUCER" The Thames, between their closes green,

Parted these warblers breast from breast,—

The gravest from the joyfulest

Whose notes the matin chorus swell:

A league divided, east and west,

They slumber well.

Is there no care in holy ground

The world's deep undertone to hear?

Can this strong sleep our Chaucer keep

When May-time buds and blossoms peer?

Less strange that many a sceptred year,

While the twin houses towered and fell,

Alike through England's pride and fear,

He slumbered well.

The envious Roses woefully

By turns a bleeding kingdom sway;

Thrones topple down,—to robe and crown

Who comes at last must hew his way.

No sound of all that piteous fray,

Nor of its ceasing, breaks the spell;

Still on, to great Eliza's day,

He slumbers well.

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