HERE by the ample river’s argent sweep,
Bosomed in tilth and vintage to her walls,
A tower-crowned Cybele in armored sleep
The city lies, fat plenty in her halls,
With calm, parochial spires that hold in fee
The friendly gables clustered at their base,
And, equipoised o’er tower and market-place,
The Gothic minster’s winged immensity;
And in that narrow burgh, with equal mood,
Two placid hearts, to all life’s good resigned,
Might, from the altar to the lych-gate, find
Long years of peace and dreamless plenitude.