Then came the dark and evil time, when English blood was shed All over fertile England, for the White Rose or the Red; But still in Wykeham's chapel the notes of praise were heard, And still in Wykeham's College they taught the Sacred Word; And in the grey of morning, on every saint's-day still, That black-gowned troop of brothers was winding up the hill: There in the hollow trench, which the Danish pirate made, Or through the broad encampment, the peaceful scholars played. Trained in such gentle discipline from childhood to their prime Grew mighty men and merciful, in that distracted time; Men on whom Wykeham's mantle fell, who stood beside their king Even in his place, and bore his staff and the same pastoral ring; Who taught Heav'n-destined monarchs to emulate his deeds Upon the banks of Cam, and in Eton's flowery meads; Founders of other Colleges by Cherwell's lilied side, Who laid their bones with his, when in ripe old age they died. And after that, when love grew cold, and Christendom was rent, And sinful Churches laid them down in sackcloth to repent; When impious men bore sway, and wasted church and shrine And cloister and old abbey, the works of men divine; Though upon all things sacred their robber hands they laid, They did not tear from Wykeham's gates the Blessed Mother-Maid: But still in Wykeham's cloisters fair wisdom did increase, And then his sons began to learn the golden songs of Greece. And all through great Eliza's reign, those days of pomp and pride, They kept the laws of Wykeham, and did not swerve aside : Still in their vaulted chapel, and in the Minster fair, And in their lamplit chambers, they said the frequent prayer: And when the Scottish plague-spot ran withering through the land, The sons of Wykeham knelt beneath meek Andrewes' fostering hand, And none of all the faithless, who swore th' unhallowed vow, Drank of the crystal waters beneath the plane-tree bough. Dread was the hour, but short as dread, when from the guarded down Fierce Cromwell's rebel soldiery kept watch o'er Wykeham's town: Beneath their pointed cannon all Itchen's valley lay, St. Catharine's breezy side, and the woodlands far away, The huge Cathedral sleeping in venerable gloom, The modest College-tower, and the bedesmen's Norman home. They spoiled the graves of valiant men, warrior and saint and sage, But at the grave of Wykeham good angels quenched their rage. Good angels still were there, when the base-hearted son Of Charles, the royal martyr, his course of shame did run: Then in those cloisters holy Ken strengthened with deeper prayer His own and his dear scholars' souls to what pure souls should dare ; Bold to rebuke enthronèd sin, with calm undazzled faith, Whether amid the pomp of courts, or on the bed of death; Firm against kingly terrors in his free country's cause, Faithful to God's anointed against a world's applause. Since then, what wars, what tumults, what change has Europe seen! But never since in Itchen's vale has war or tumult been. God's mercies have been with us, His favour still has blest The memories sweet and glorious deeds of the good men at rest : The many prayers, the daily praise, the nurture in the Word, Have not in vain ascended up before the gracious Lord : Nations, and thrones, and reverend laws, have melted like a dream; Yet Wykeham's works are green and fresh beside the crystal stream. Four hundred years and fifty their rolling course have sped Since the first serge-clad scholar to Wykeham's feet was led ; And still his seventy faithful boys, in these presumptuous days, Learn the old truths, speak the old words, tread in the ancient ways: Still for their daily orisons resounds the matin chime ; Still linked in bands of brotherhood St. Catharine's steep they climb; Still to their Sabbath worship they troop by Wykeham's tomb; Still in the summer twilight sing their sweet song of Home. And at th' appointed seasons, when Wykeham's bounties claim The full heart's solemn tribute from those who love his name, Still shall his white-robed children, as age on age rolls by, At Oxford and at Winchester, give thanks to God most High: And amid kings and martyrs shedding down glorious light, While the deep-echoing organ swells to the vaulted height, With grateful thoughts o'erflowing at the mercies they behold, They shall praise their sainted fathers, the famous men of old. CXXVII TRUST IN GOD, AND DO THE RIGHT Courage, brother, do not stumble, Though thy path be dark as night; There's a star to guide the humble ;— “Trust in God, and do the right.” Let the road be rough and dreary, |
