For me thy minsters raised their towers on high;
Thou gav’st me friends whose memory cannot die:—
I love thee, and for that cause left unsought
Thy praise. Thy ruined cloisters, forests green,
Thy moors where still the branching wild deer roves,
Dear haunts of mine by sun and moon have been
From Cumbrian peaks to Devon’s laughing coves.
They love thee less, be sure, who ne’er had heart
To take, for truth’s sake, ’gainst thyself thy part.
Aubrey de Vere.