In the Abbey

How came you here—tell me, how came you here With these of England's garnered great to lie? In this vast tomb of Kings, cool and austere, Why should you sleep while centuries go by Lost and alone,—Jane Lister, childe so dear?

Who brought you down this dim and storied way, Where mighty names are carved on wall and floor;— Who carried you that far forgotten day In through the Abbey's heavy darkened door— You, who belonged to Morning, and the May.

Poets, and Queens, and Ministers of State, These are your neighbors in this house of peace. You are ringed round with weary men and great, Who each one, here, at last found long release From weight of grandeur, pain of love, and hate.

Here Gloriana's restless heart is still, And Mary Queen of Scots is free of grief, Here the Crusader's armour rusts at will, And never summer shine or swinging leaf Brighten these alcoves that the shadows fill.

For here the night and day are both as one, And folded hands have laid their treasures down; Here are no battles fought—no races run; No man wears other than a carven crown, In this grey quietness, bereft of sun.

They should have found for you a pleasant place Small one,—where daisies grew and grass was green, And shadows from tall trees made lovely lace, And in young April little lambs were seen, Or the high moon looked down with smiling face.

O much I wonder why they brought you here, Where Kings and Queens and glorious warriors lie, With one lone unknown soldier on his bier. Strange ghosts, methinks, you are companioned by Little Jane Lister—childe forever dear.