  ’TIS not for thee in ancient walks to throw Thy pointed shadows o’er the sculptured stone, Where marble fixes some immortal moan Of art; nor, gathering gloom where waters flow Past groves Lethean, crypts of human woe, To lift thy cheering spires. Thy lot is strown In newer, happier climes and lands unknown To classic realms of storied pomps and show. For thou, dear gnomon of the passing hour, Green sentinel of sunny lanes and fields, Whose sturdy watch defies harsh winter’s knell, Art guardian of the humblest homes, where dwell The simple folk, the yeomanry that wields In peopled might all that men crave of power! Harvey Maitland Watts. |
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