Page:The Poems of Oscar Wilde.pdf/232

 But we are Learning's changelings, know by rote

The clarion watchword of each Grecian school

And follow none, the flawless sword which smote

The pagan Hydra is an effete tool

Which we ourselves have blunted, what man now

Shall scale the august ancient heights and to old Reverence bow?

One such indeed I saw, but, Ichabod!

Gone is that last dear son of Italy,

Who being man died for the sake of God,

And whose un-risen bones sleep peacefully,

O guard him, guard him well, my Giotto's tower,

Thou marble lily of the lily town! let not the lour

Of the rude tempest vex his slumber, or

The Arno with its tawny troubled gold

O'er-leap its marge, no mightier conqueror

Clomb the high Capitol in the days of old

When Rome was indeed Rome, for Liberty

Walked like a Bride beside him, at which sight pale Mystery

Fled shrieking to her farthest sombrest cell

With an old man who grabbled rusty keys,

Fled shuddering, for that immemorial knell 218