Sonnet Xiv. Glastonbury.

On thy green marge, thou vale of Avalon, Not for that thou art crowned with ancient towers And shafts and clustered pillars many a one, Love I to dream away the sunny hours; Not for that here in charmèd slumber lie The holy relics of that British king Who was the flower of knightly chivalry, Do I stand blest past power of uttering;-- But for that on thy cowslip--sprinkled sod Alit of old the olive--bearing bird, Meek messenger of purchased peace with God; And the first hymns that Britain ever heard Arose, the low preluding melodies To the sweetest anthem that hath reached the skies. ;;; Sonnet XV. Sunset At Burton Pynsent, Somerset. How bare and bright thou sinkest to thy rest Over the burnished line of the Severn sea: While somewhat of thy power thou buriest In ruddy mists, that we may look on thee. And while we stand and wonder, we may see Far mountain--tops in visible glory drest, Where 'twixt yon purple hills the sight is free To search the regions of the dim north--west, But shadowy bars have crossed thee: suddenly Thou'rt fallen among strange clouds;--yet not the less Thy presence know we by the radiancy That doth thy shroud with golden fringes dress; Even as hidden love to faithful eye Brightens the edges of obscure distress.