POETRY.

IN THE VICARS' CLOSE AT WELLS.

WHERE southward slope the Mendip Hills,

And spring S. Andrew's brimming rills, The looming walls of Wells remain Imperishable on the plain ;

A mighty fortress gray and vast,

Founded upon a Rock, and fast.

The mem'ries of a thousand years—

Their suns and storms, their hopes and fears—.

Gather about the sombre pile, And hold the pilgrim's steps awhile.

And still the sacred stream flows on Of lesson, prayer, and antiphon ;

The mimic knight in tourney wheels,

The hour strikes, the organ peals, By vergers served, in grave array Processions wend their solemn way; Upon the currents of the moat The stately swans serenely float; Above the ruined banquet hall The restless ravens croak and call; The terrace walk we pace again In sentiment with saintly Ken, And sing once more the Evening Hymn Worthy the lips of Cherubim.

* * • * * * * Hard by the fare where Bishops knelt, Of old the Vicars Choral dwelt, And in the quiet of their Close Enjoyed a dignified repose.

Their forms now midst the Cloisters sleep, But here their spirits vigil keep, And, shielded from the world's abuse, Each waits, invisible recluse, Until, to Life Immortal born, He greets the Resurrection Morn.

No longer in and out the Close The ancient singer comes and goes ; No more his figure strikes the eye That watches for the passer by; No more his cheery voice resounds Within the consecrated bounds ; But still his self pervades the scene, And ivy keeps his mem'ry green.

Outside the narrow entrance ways The little city's traffic: stays.

The lumb'ring waggons ramble by, The horses' clattering footsteps fly, The children shout, the dogs delight To growl and snarl and bark and fight, The whistles shriek, the motor car Sounds its hoarse warning from afar ; But naught of such distracting din

To this retreat may enter in;

No discord harsh, no rude alarm, Can violate the tranquil charm ;

A Vicar's spell is over all,—

Each grass-grown plot, each vine-clad wall.

He who has found the Vicars Close A Little Sanctuary knows: Its nave the middle pathway wide, Its aisles the gardens on each side; Black-vested choristers o'erhead

Praise Him by Whom all mouths are fed;

From oluatered chimneys slowly rise Wreathings of incense to the skies ; Each venerable dwelling's shape The season's ritual colours drape ; And where the hallowed precinct ends The evening sacrifice ascends. To all I fain would add my part—. The homage of a grateful heart.

Within the Close a welcome waits For all who pass the mystic gates With sympathy to feel and trace

The soothing secret of the place;

And those who thus approach the shrine Yield to its influence benign.

For them a Vicar Choral stands At every door with outstretched hands, And, as the evening shades begin, He kindly takes the stranger in.

Then as deep darkness settles down On Minster, Palace, Square, and Town, And mists are drifting overhead, He sallies forth with noiseless tread To watch the night, and ring the hours From the Cathedral's lofty towers, And mark the intervening times On sainted Cnthbert's distant chimes.

And so, good Vicar, name unknown, Thy memory is not outgrown.

As long as these old stones shall last That memory shall bind them fast. From bustling Inn and Palace gray We gladly turn our steps thy way. Thy guests we are, and, though unheard, For thee we drop this friendly word, Thankful to take our place with those Who find their home within thy Close.

EDWARD ABBOTT.

18 The Vicars' Close, Advent, 1906.