Ancestral Houses

    Surely among a rich man‘s flowering lawns，

    Amid the rustle of his planted hills，

    Life overflows without ambitious pains；

    And rains down life until the basin spills，

    And mounts more dizzy high the more it rains

    As though to choose whatever shape it wills

    And never stoop to a mechanical

    Or servile shape， at others‘ beck and call.

    Mere dreams， mere dreams！ Yet Homer had not sung

    Had he not found it certain beyond dreams

    That out of life‘s own self-delight had sprung

    The abounding glittering jet； though now it seems

    As if some marvellous empty sea-shell flung

    Out of the obscure dark of the rich streams，

    And not a fountain， were the symbol which

    Shadows the inherited glory of the rich.

    Some violent bitter man， some powerful man

    Called architect and artist in， that they，

    Bitter and violent men， might rear in stone

    The sweetness that all longed for night and day，

    The gentleness none there had ever known；

    But when the master‘s buried mice can play，

    And maybe the great-grandson of that house，

    For all its bronze and marble， ‘s but a mouse.

    O what if gardens where the peacock strays

    With delicate feet upon old terraces，

    Or else all Juno from an urn displays

    Before the indifferent garden deities；

    O what if levelled lawns and gravelled ways

    Where slippered Contemplation finds his ease

    And Childhood a delight for every sense，

    But take our greatness with our violence？

    What if the glory of escutcheoned doors，

    And buildings that a haughtier age designed，

    The pacing to and fro on polished floors

    Amid great chambers and long galleries， lined

    With famous portraits of our ancestors；

    What if those things the greatest of mankind

    Consider most to magnify， or to bless，

    But take our greatness with our bitterness？