Winchester

To the fairest!Then to theeConsecrate and bounden be,Winchester! this verse of mine.Ah, that loveliness of thine!To have lived enchaunted yearsFree from sorrows, free from fears,Where thy Tower's great shadow fallsOver those proud buttressed walls;Whence a purpling glory poursFrom high heaven's inheritors,Throned within the arching stone!To have wandered, hushed, alone,Gently round thy fair, fern-grownChauntry of the Lilies, lyingWhere the soft night winds go sighingRound thy Cloisters, in moonlightBranching dark, or touched with white:Round old, chill aisles, where moon-smittenBlanches the Orate, writtenUnder each worn, old-world faceGraven on Death's holy place!

To the noblest!None but thee.Blest our living eyes, that seeHalf a thousand years fulfilledOf that age, which Wykeham willedThee to win; yet all unworn,As upon that first March morn,When thine honoured city sawThy young beauty without flaw,Born within her water-flowing,Ancient hollows, by wind-blowingHills enfolded ever more.Thee, that lord of splendid lore,Orient from old Hellas' shore,Grocyn, had to mother: thee,Monumental majestyOf most high philosophyHonours, in thy wizard Browne:Tender Otway's dear renown,Mover of a perfect pity,Victim of the iron city,Thine to cherish is: and thee,Laureate of Liberty;Harper of the Highland faith,Elf, and faery, and wan wraith;Chaunting softly, chaunting slowly,Minstrel of all melancholy;Master of all melody,Made to cling round memory;Passion's poet, Evening's voice,Collins glorified. Rejoice,Mother! in thy sons: for allLove thine immemorialName, august and musical.Not least he, who left thy side,For his sire's, thine earlier pride,Arnold: whom we mourn to-day,Prince of song, and gone awayTo his brothers of the bay:Thine the love of all his years;His be now thy praising tears.

To the dearest!Ah, to thee!Hast thou not in all to meMother, more than mother, been?Well toward thee may Mary QueenBend her with a mother's mien;Who so rarely dost expressAn inspiring tenderness,Woven with thy sterner strain,Prelude of the world's true pain.But two years, and still my feetFound thy very stones more sweet,Than the richest fields elsewhere:Two years, and thy sacred airStill poured balm upon me, whenNearer drew the world of men;When the passions, one by one,All sprang upward to the sun:Two years have I lived, still thine;Lost, thy presence! gone, that shrine,Where six years, what years! were mine.Music is the thought of thee;Fragrance, all thy memory.Those thy rugged Chambers old,In their gloom and rudeness, holdDear remembrances of gold.Some first blossoming of flowersMade delight of all the hours;Greatness, beauty, all things fairMade the spirit of thine air:Old years live with thee; thy sonsWalk with high companions.Then, the natural joy of earth,Joy of very health and birth!Hills, upon a summer noon:Water Meads, on eves of June:Chamber Court, beneath the moon:Days of spring, on Twyford Down,Or when autumn woods grew brown;As they looked, when here came Keats,Chaunting of autumnal sweets;Through this city of old haunts,Murmuring immortal chaunts;As when Pope, art's earlier king,Here, a child, did nought but sing;Sang, a child, by nature's rule,Round the trees of Twyford School:Hours of sun beside Mead's Wall,Ere the may begin to fall;Watching the rooks rise and soar,High from lime and sycamore:Wanderings by old-world ways,Walks and streets of ancient days;Closes, churches, arches, halls,Vanished men's memorials.There was beauty, there was grace,Each place was an holy place:There the kindly fates allowedMe too room; and made me proud,Prouder name I have not wist!With the name of Wykehamist.These thy joys: and more than these:Ah, to watch beneath thy trees,Through long twilights linden-scented,Sunsets, lingering, lamented,In the purple west; prevented,Ere they fell, by evening star!Ah, long nights of Winter! farLeaps and roars the faggot fire;Ruddy smoke rolls higher, higher,Broken through by flame's desire;Circling faces glow, all eyesTake the light; deep radiance flies,Merrily flushing overheadNames of brothers, long since fled;And fresh clusters, in their stead,Jubilant round fierce forest flame.Friendship too must make her claim:But what songs, what memories end,When they tell of friend on friend?And for them, I thank thy name.

Love alone of gifts, no shameLessens, and I love thee: yetSound it but of echoes, letThis my maiden music be,Of the love I bear to thee,Witness and interpreter,Mother mine: loved Winchester!