Page:Poetical Remains.pdf/119

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Borne from their dwellings, green and lone, There were flowers of the woods on the pathway strown; And wheels that crush'd as they swept along— Oh! what doth the violet amidst the throng?

I saw where a bright Procession pass'd The gates of a Minster, old and vast; And a king to his crowning place was led, Through a sculptur'd line of the warrior dead.

I saw, far gleaming, the long array Of trophies, on those high tombs that lay, And the coloured light, that wrapp'd them all, Rich, deep, and sad, as a royal pall.

But a lowlier grave soon won mine eye Away from th' ancestral pageantry: A grave by the lordly Minster's gate, Unhonour'd, and yet not desolate.