06.03.2008, 19:55
Keswick
The Church is holy still, and consecrate
To mute attention and meek whispering prayer,
Though He, - the mighty voice, no more is there,
That gave the high roof a religious weight,
And the tall shaft upraised with hope elate,
And hallow'd all the holy well of air.
With duteous footstep to the church repair
Where lies the good, the kind, the wise, the great.
Old Skiddaw stands upon his basement strong,
And Wallow Crag is yet a bastion proud,
And rough Lodore with thunder-rain is loud,
And Greta murmurs yet her ancient song.
Revere the vale, where Southey's corpse is laid,
Nor fear to pray - where he so long has pray'd.
The Church is holy still, and consecrate
To mute attention and meek whispering prayer,
Though He, - the mighty voice, no more is there,
That gave the high roof a religious weight,
And the tall shaft upraised with hope elate,
And hallow'd all the holy well of air.
With duteous footstep to the church repair
Where lies the good, the kind, the wise, the great.
Old Skiddaw stands upon his basement strong,
And Wallow Crag is yet a bastion proud,
And rough Lodore with thunder-rain is loud,
And Greta murmurs yet her ancient song.
Revere the vale, where Southey's corpse is laid,
Nor fear to pray - where he so long has pray'd.