Faithful, compassionate and holy,

And, being human, strong and weak,

And full of hope and melancholy.

No more than we, able to shed

Man's nature he inherited,

Neither sin's garrison to kill,

So that he lived before he died

All joys save those that cannot pall,

Lean by the river's marge,

He thought it very large.

And bridge with houses loaded

But ah, they were not woaded!

Of meres and marshes green,

The beauty that had been:

The fisher in his coracle,

An oak-tree and an oracle.

And dropt a tear in season;

We have much better reason.

Are coffined all with bricks,

Runs slimy as the Styx;

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