Ere vandal lords with lust of gold accurst <br />Deface each hallowed hillside we revere-- <br />Ere cities in their million-throated thirst <br />Menace each sacred mere-- <br />Let us give thanks because one nook hath been <br />Unflooded yet by desecration's wave, <br />The little churchyard in the valley green <br />That holds our Wordsworth's grave. <br /> <br />'Twas there I plucked these elegiac blooms, <br />There where he rests 'mid comrades fit and few, <br />And thence I bring this growth of classic tombs, <br />An offering, friend, to you-- <br />You who have loved like me his simple themes, <br />Loved his sincere large accent nobly plain, <br />And loved the land whose mountains and whose streams <br />Are lovelier for his strain. <br /> <br />It may be that his manly chant, beside <br />More dainty numbers, seems a rustic tune; <br />It may be, thought has broadened since he died <br />Upon the century's noon; <br />It may be that we can no longer share <br />The faith which from his fathers he received; <br />It may be that our doom is to despair <br />Where he with joy believed;-- <br /> <br />Enough that there is none since risen who sings <br />A song so gotten of the immediate soul, <br />So instant from the vital fount of things <br />Which is our source and goal; <br />And though at touch of later hands there float <br />More artful tones than from his lyre he drew, <br />Ages may pass ere trills another note <br />So sweet, so great, so true.<br /><br />William Watson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-james-bromley-with-wordsworth-s-grave/
