Laleham

Only one voice could sing arightHis brother poet, lost in night:His voice, who lies not far away,The pure and perfect voice of Gray.The sleep of humble men he sang,For whom the tolling church bells rangOver their silent fields and vales,Whence no rude sound their calm assails.He knew their melancholy rest,And peaceful sleep, on earth's kind breast;Their patient lives, their common doom,The beauty of their simple tomb.One thing he left unsung: how some,To share those village slumbers, come:Whose voices filled the world with joy,Who made high thoughts their one employ.Ah, loving hearts! Too great to prizeThings whereon most men set their eyes:The applauding crowd; the golden lureOf wealth, insatiate and unsure;A life of noise! a restless death:The sanctities of life's last breathProfaned with ritual pride and state;Last pageant of the little great!But these, to whom all crowns of song,And all immortal praise, belong,Turn from each garish sight and sound,To lay them down in humble ground:Choosing that still, enchaunted sleepTo be, where kindly natures keep:In sound of pleasant water rills,In shadows of the solemn hills.Earth's heart, earth's hidden way, they knew:Now on their grave light falls her dew.The music of her soul was theirs:They sleep beneath her sweetest airs.

Beside the broad, gray Thames one lies,With whom a spring of beauty dies:Among the willows, the pure windCalls all his wistful song to mind;And, as the calm, strong river flows,With it his mightier music goes;But those winds cool, those waters lave,The country of his chosen grave.Go past the cottage flowers, and see,Where Arnold held it good to be!Half church, half cottage, comely standsAn holy house, from Norman hands:By rustic Time well taught to wearSome lowly, meditative air:Long ages of a pastoral raceHave softened sternness into grace;And many a touch of simpler useFrom Norman strength hath set it loose.Here, under old, red-fruited yews,And summer suns, and autumn dews,With his lost children at his side,Sleeps Arnold: Still those waters glide,Those winds blow softly down their breast:But he, who loved them, is at rest.