Lincoln Minister Poem by Alec de Candole

I CANNOT voice thy glories ; all too cold
Is human speech to tell of human art,
That strikes, like Lincoln, to the inmost heart
With tender touch of loveliness untold.
What work is here ! Not labour bought and sold,
But love that bursts to life in every part,
In stem and foliage, flower and fruit, that start
From the quick stone. toil unpriced of gold,
built for ever, sharing sacred days
Of story rich with many a saintly name.
Still may'st thou flourish with no weaker fame.
That ever thou on high may'st proudly raise
Thy towers on Lindum hill, that thee proclaim
Who by supreme and royal, passing praise.