[VIII. The Old Dial of Corpus]
Warden of hours and ages, here I dwell,
Who saw young Keble pass, with sighing shook
For good unborn; and towards a willow nook,
Pole, princely in the senate and the cell;
And doubting the near boom of Osney bell,
Turning on me that sweetly subtile look,
Erasmus, in his breast an Attic book:
Peacemakers all, their dreams to ashes fell.
Naught steadfast may I image nor attain
Save steadfast labour; futile must I grope
After my god, like him, inconstant bright:
But sun and shade will unto you remain
Alternately a symbol and a hope,
Men, spirits! of Emmanuel your Light.
[IX. Rooks: New College Gardens]
Through rosy cloud and over thorny towers,
Their wings with darkling autumn distance filled,
From Isis' valley border, many-hilled,
The rooks are crowding home as evening lowers:
Not for men only, and their musing hours
By battled walls did gracious Wykeham build
These dewy spaces early sown and stilled,
These dearest inland melancholy bowers.
Blest birds! A book held open on the knee
Below, is all they guess of Adam's blight:
With surer art the while, and simpler rite,
They gather power in some monastic tree
Where breathe against their docile breasts by night
The scholar's star, the star of sanctity.