MOURN not a leaf that strews the linden shade Of Welwyn's faded bower; and if the year Hath touch'd her glittering foliage with the sere And yellow look of autumn, it hath laid A fitlier residence for her the maid
Divine Urania. So let nought appear Of the world's transitory glories near This consecrated roof; nor thou upbraid, With thoughtless speech, time's ministers with
wrong
Done to the Muse's dwelling: not a thing But blooms immortal here; to all belong Perennial verdure, and an endless Spring Breathed from the Poet's pure celestial Song.