I have led her home, my love, my only friend. There is none like her, none, And never yet so warmly ran my blood, And sweetly, on and on Calming itself to the long-wished for end, Full to the banks, close on the prom- ised good.

But the churchmen fain would kill their church, As the churches have kill'd their Christ.

That man's the true Conservative who lops the moldered branch away.

Blind and naked ignorance delivers brawling judgments, unashamed, on all things all day long

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.

Wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower.

But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.