For a Statue of Chaucer at Woodstock

Such was old Chaucer; such the placid mienOf him who first with harmony inform'dThe language of our fathers. Here he dweltFor many a cheerful day. These ancient wallsHave often heard him, while his legends blitheHe sang; of love, or knighthood, or the wilesOf homely life; through each estate and age,The fashions and the follies of the worldWith cunning hand portraying. Though perchanceFrom Blenheim's towers, O stranger, thou art comeGlowing with Churchill's trophies; yet in vainDost thou applaud them if thy breast be coldTo him, this other hero; who, in timesDark and untaught, began with charming verseTo tame the rudeness of his native land.

Whoe'er thou art whose path in summer liesThrough yonder village, turn thee where the groveOf branching oaks a rural palace oldEmbosoms. There dwells Albert, generous lordOf all the harvest round. And onward thenceA low plain chapel fronts the morning lightFast by a silent rivulet. Humbly walk,O stranger, o'er the consecrated ground;And on that verdant hillock, which thou seestBeset with osiers, let thy pious handSprinkle fresh water from the brook, and strewSweet-smelling flowers. For there doth Edmund rest,The learned shepherd; for each rural artFamed, and for songs harmonious, and the woesOf ill-requited love. The faithless prideOf fair Matilda sank him to the graveIn manhood's prime. But soon did righteous Heaven,With tears, with sharp remorse, and pining care,Avenge her falsehood. Nor could all the goldAnd nuptial pomp, which lured her plighted faithFrom Edmund to a loftier husband's home,Relieve her breaking heart, or turn asideThe strokes of death. Go, traveller; relateThe mournful story. Haply some fair maidMay hold it in remembrance, and be taughtThat riches cannot pay for truth or love.

O youths and virgins: O declining eld:O pale misfortune's slaves: O ye who dwellUnknown with humble quiet; ye who waitIn courts, or fill the golden seat of kings:O sons of sport and pleasure: O thou wretchThat weep'st for jealous love, or the sore woundsOf conscious guilt, or death's rapacious handWhich left thee void of hope: O ye who roamIn exile; ye who through the embattled fieldSeek bright renown; or who for nobler palmsContend, the leaders of a public cause;Approach: behold this marble. Know ye notThe features'? Hath not oft his faithful tongueTold you the fashion of your own estate,The secrets of your bosom? Here then, roundHis monument with reverence while ye stand,Say to each other:-'This was Shakspeare's form;Who walk'd in every path of human life,Felt every passion; and to all mankindDoth now, will ever, that experience yieldWhich his own genius only could acquire.'

Ye powers unseen, to whom, the bards of GreeceErected altars; ye who to the mindMore lofty views unfold, and prompt the heartWith more divine emotions; if erewhileNot quite uupleasing have my votive ritesOf you been deem'd, when oft this lonely seatTo you I consecrated; then vouchsafeHere with your instant energy to crownMy happy solitude. It is the hourWhen most I love to invoke you, and have feltMost frequent your glad ministry divine.The air is calm: the sun's unveiled orbShines in the middle heaven. The harvest roundStands quiet, and among the golden sheavesThe reapers lie reclined. The neighbouring grovesAre mute, nor even a linnet's random strainEchoeth amid the silence. Let me feelYour influence, ye kind powers. Aloft in heaven,Abide ye? or on those transparent cloudsPass ye from hill to hill? or on the shadesWhich yonder elms cast o'er the lake belowDo you converse retired? From what loved hauntShall I expect you? Let me once more feelYour influence, O ye kind inspiring powers:And I will guard it well; nor shall a thoughtRise in my mind, nor shall a passion moveAcross my bosom unobserved, unstoredBy faithful memory. And then at someMore active moment, will I call them forthAnew; and join them in majestic forms,And give them utterance in harmonious strains;That all mankind shall wonder at your sway.

Me though in life's sequester'd valeThe Almighty Sire ordain'd to dwell,Remote from glory's toilsome ways,And the great scenes of public praise;Yet let me still with grateful prideRemember how my infant frameHe temper'd with prophetic flame,And early music to my tongue supplied.'Twas then my future fate he weigh'd,And, this be thy concern, he said,At once with Passion's keen alarms,And Beauty's pleasurable charms,And sacred Truth's eternal light,To move the various mind of Man;Till, under one unblemish'd plan,His Reason, Fancy, and his Heart unite.