Such natural debts of love our Oxford knows, So many ancient dues undesecrate, I marvel how the landmark of a hate For witness unto future time she chose; How out of her corroborate ranks arose The three, in great denial only great, For Art’s enshrining! . . Thus, averted straight, My soul to seek a holier captain goes: That sweet adventurer whom Truth befell Whenas the synagogues were watching not; Whose crystal name on royal Oriel Hangs like a shield; who to an outland spot Led hence, beholds his Star; and counts it well Of all his dear domain to live forgot. XI. A LAST VIEW. Where down the glen, across the shallow ford, Stretches the open aisle from scene to scene, By halted horses silently we lean, Gazing enchanted from our steeper sward. How yon low loving skies of April hoard An hundred pinnacles, and how with sheen Of spike and ball her languid clouds between, Grey Oxford grandly rises riverward! Sweet on those dim long-dedicated walls, Silver as rain the frugal sunshine falls; Slowly sad eyes resign them, bound afar. Dear Beauty, dear Tradition, fare you well: And powers that aye aglow in you, impel Our quickening spirits from the slime we are. XII. RETRIEVAL. Stars in the bosom of thy triple tide, June air and ivy on thy gracile stone, O glory of the West, as thou wert sown, Be perfect: O miraculous, abide! And still, for greatness flickering from thy side, Eternal alchemist, upraise, 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. LYRICS. _TO DORA SIGERSON SHORTER_ AND _CLEMENT SHORTER._ A BALLAD OF KENELM. “_In Clent cow-batch, Kenelm, King born, Lieth under a thorn._” It was a goodly child, Sweet as the gusty May; It was a knight that broke On his play, A fair and coaxing knight: “O little liege!” said he, “Thy sister bids thee come After me. “A pasture rolling west Lies open to the sun, Bright-shod with primroses Doth it run; And forty oaks be nigh, Apart, and face to face, And cow-bells all the morn In the space. “And there the sloethorn bush Beside the water grows, And hides her mocking head Under snows; Black stalks afoam with bloom, And never a leaf hath she: Thou crystal of the realm, Follow me!” Uplooked the undefiled: “All things, ere I was born, My sister found; now find Me the thorn.” They travelled down the lane, An hour’s dust they made: The belted breast of one Bore a blade.