AROUND this lichened home of hoary peace, br Invulnerable in its glassy moat, br A breath of ghostly summers seems to float br And murmur mid the immemorial trees. br The tender slopes, where cattle browse at ease, br Swell softly, like a pigeon's emerald throat; br And, self-oblivious, Time forgets to note br The flight of velvet-footed centuries. br br The very sunlight hushed within the close, br Sleeps indolently by the Yew's slow shade; br Still as a relic some old Master made br The jewelled peacock's rich enamel glows; br And on yon mossy wall that youthful rose br Blooms like a rose that never means to fade.