Sir John Hanmer (1809–1881)

WHEN I remember how, nor separate chance,

Nor restless traffic, peopling many a shore,

Nor old tradition with innumerous lore,

But poets wrought our best inheritance,

Sweet words and noble, in their gay science

That England heard, and then forevermore

Loved as her own, and did with deeds adore;

I bless thee with a kindred heart, Provence:

For to thy tales, like waves that come and go,

Sat Chaucer listening with exulting ear,

And casting his own phrase in giant mould,

That still had charms for sorrow’s gentlest tear

Telling the story of Griselda’s woe,

“Under the roots of Vesulus the cold.”