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And dark the horizon, with mast and with sail Of the thousand tall ships that have weathered the gale: While beyond the arched bridge the old abbey appears, Where England has garnered the glories of years. There the royal, the lovely, the gifted, the brave, Haunt the heart with a poetry born of the grave.

Still and lone mid the tumult these gardens extend, The elm and the lime over flower-beds bend; And the sunshine rains in as the light leaves are stirred, When away from the nest he has built springs the bird.