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TOMBS OF GOWER AND BISHOP ANDREWS.

331

Yet if thou hadst that music in thy soul,
    That still, small voice, which only poets hear,
More prized, than all the proud, heraldic scroll,
    Were one sad requiem, simple and sincere.

Sire of that art, which still enthralled doth hold
    The fairer spirits of the British Isles,
It is not meet that thou shouldst slumber cold,
    And drink no homage from the Muse's smiles.

Yet thou, Oh Prelate, in thy lowlier bed,
    Who not to linked sounds thy fame didst bind,
But like the prophet through the desert, led
    By pillared flame, and cloud, the immortal mind,

Thou, whose high business with the human soul
    Did point o'er steeps where stormy passions rave,
Through darkened depths where bitter waters roll,
    To find the erring, and the lost to save,

Whose tireless bounty sought the suffering poor,
    Whose pitying care the helpless orphan fed,
Brought heavenly comfort to the sick man's door,
    And to the prisoner came with angel tread,

Thou, who with chastening thoughts and pious fears
    Tried thine own spirit on its pilgrim-way,
Whose treasured prayers survive the lapse of years,
    Not with a song thy seraph-zeal we pay.