CHAUCER
THE heart of Merrie England sang in thee,Dan Chaucer, blithest of the sons of morn!How, from that dim and mellow distance borne,Come floating down thy measures pure and free,Thou prime old minnesinger! Pageantry,And Revel, blowing from his drinking-hornThe froth of malt, and Love that dwells forlorn—Though England perish, these will live in thee!Thine is the jocund springtime—winsome May,Crowned with her daisies, wooed thee, clerkly wight;The breath of freeland fields is in thy lay,And in thy graver verse thy nation's might;O Pan-pipe, blown at England's break of day,Still echo through her noon thy clear delight!
THE heart of Merrie England sang in thee,Dan Chaucer, blithest of the sons of morn!How, from that dim and mellow distance borne,Come floating down thy measures pure and free,Thou prime old minnesinger! Pageantry,And Revel, blowing from his drinking-hornThe froth of malt, and Love that dwells forlorn—Though England perish, these will live in thee!Thine is the jocund springtime—winsome May,Crowned with her daisies, wooed thee, clerkly wight;The breath of freeland fields is in thy lay,And in thy graver verse thy nation's might;O Pan-pipe, blown at England's break of day,Still echo through her noon thy clear delight!
THE heart of Merrie England sang in thee,Dan Chaucer, blithest of the sons of morn!How, from that dim and mellow distance borne,Come floating down thy measures pure and free,Thou prime old minnesinger! Pageantry,And Revel, blowing from his drinking-hornThe froth of malt, and Love that dwells forlorn—Though England perish, these will live in thee!
THE heart of Merrie England sang in thee,
Dan Chaucer, blithest of the sons of morn!
How, from that dim and mellow distance borne,
Come floating down thy measures pure and free,
Thou prime old minnesinger! Pageantry,
And Revel, blowing from his drinking-horn
The froth of malt, and Love that dwells forlorn—
Though England perish, these will live in thee!
Thine is the jocund springtime—winsome May,Crowned with her daisies, wooed thee, clerkly wight;The breath of freeland fields is in thy lay,And in thy graver verse thy nation's might;O Pan-pipe, blown at England's break of day,Still echo through her noon thy clear delight!
Thine is the jocund springtime—winsome May,
Crowned with her daisies, wooed thee, clerkly wight;
The breath of freeland fields is in thy lay,
And in thy graver verse thy nation's might;
O Pan-pipe, blown at England's break of day,
Still echo through her noon thy clear delight!