Ii

STARS in the bosom of thy braided tide, Soft air and ivy on thy gracile stone, O Glory of the West, as thou wert sown, Stand perfect: O miraculous, abide! And still, for greatness flickering from thy side, Eternal alchemist, evoke, enthrone True heirs in true succession, later blown From that same seed of fire which never died.

Nor Love shall lack her solace, to behold Ranged to the morrow's melancholy verge, Thy lights uprisen in Thought's disclosing spaces; And round some beacon-spirit, stable, old, In radiant broad tumultuary surge For ever, the young voices, the young faces.