Classic Poem

The groves of Penshurst are a haunted place;
There is a spirit and a presence there
Of one departed; and the brooding air
Is charged with powers of old ancestral grace.
Thou art a worthy son of that great sire:
Though there be doubt and peril, while the fire
Of youth burns in thee! Let the cherished dread
Of that most knightly-hearted Sydney rest,
Like a dear master's hand upon thy breast.
Brother! great minds are built, great souls are fed
In steadfast discipline and silent fear.
When from this rule thine impulse would depart,
A voice from Sydney's tomb shall whisper near,
And ring wild trumpet-notes within thy heart!