Page:Poet Lore, volume 34, 1923.djvu/630

 He hath outsoared our narrow island's bounds And borne our fame to farther Western shores! That is indubitable! That stamps him great! Dearer than Milton; priced above Keats He comes to lay his wearied dust in here Where Chaucer worshipped and where Spencer prayed! What does England need More than a poet leaving nought behind! And Mr. Bulfin tells me, on his honour, That not one word in manuscript or print Of this great poet—not one word in type Or writing at dictation, lives to call forth The maiden's blush! The youngest Person may Retire with Him—with what of Him remains!— To her pure chamber and rest unpolluted! He hath outsoared all grossness; He alone Alone among the poets of our land Banquets immaculate. Our greatest, last! Our greatest! Purest! Last! In truth, the Last For he's the last shall ever be brought here To lie in our tiny hallowed Poet's Corner That now is fitted up with deathless dust. I've prayed for guidance as to the bestowal Of these last sacred inches; dreadful trust: To guard the storied purlieus of this fane Where Shakespeare prayed and Bacon thought on science From the intrusion of all sacrilegious And prurient dust! But, now, ah now! All's well! All's well with England and her storied shrine! England's Last Poet is impeccable! Purest, most great and last! Hail and Farewell!