I am no pilgrim unto Becket's shrine,
To kneel with fervour on his knee-worn grave,
And with my tears his sainted ashes lave,
Yet feel devotion rise no less divine--
As rapt I gaze from Harbledown's decline
And view the rev'rend temple where was shed
That pamper'd prelate's blood--his marble bed
Midst pillar'd pomp, where rainbow windows shine;
Where bent the [1]anointed of a nation's throne
And brooked the lashes of the church's ire;
And where, as yesterday, with soul of fire,
Transcendent Byron view'd the hallow'd stone.
Sure Chaucer's pilgrims, on this crowning height,
Repress'd their mirth, and kindled at the sight.