A MEDITATION.
"I believe in the Communion of Saints."
The World doth love its own,
Doth praise its own, doth keep their memories young;
Where warrior once hath bled, where poet sung,
Time's dust may never gather,—hill and stream
Catch up heroic echoes, and the lone
Vaucluse still murmurs of the music thrown
Around it by one fervid Lover's dream.
Doth praise its own, doth keep their memories young;
Where warrior once hath bled, where poet sung,
Time's dust may never gather,—hill and stream
Catch up heroic echoes, and the lone
Vaucluse still murmurs of the music thrown
Around it by one fervid Lover's dream.
The World doth love its own,
But unto you that loved it, hath it proved
It was not worthy of ye! little loved
Or loved amiss, how hard hath been your lot!
Followed with worship that ye had disclaimed
And warned each suppliant, "See thou do it not,"
Or like to cherished friends that on its throne
The heart hath lifted, till too rudely blamed
For overprizing, it hath grown ashamed,
And taken from them that which was their own,
But unto you that loved it, hath it proved
It was not worthy of ye! little loved
Or loved amiss, how hard hath been your lot!
Followed with worship that ye had disclaimed
And warned each suppliant, "See thou do it not,"
Or like to cherished friends that on its throne
The heart hath lifted, till too rudely blamed
For overprizing, it hath grown ashamed,
And taken from them that which was their own,
