The Abbey Poem by John William Inchbold

We only know that all in peace have rest,
The Babe that died betwixt its sob and smile,
The Knight whose fame reached farthest east and west,
The sweetest Queen of Love in love's own Isle;
The Poet's name is whispered gently here,
The Statesman's turmoil is in quiet lost,
The Saint's spring flowery chaplet is not sere,
Our great ancestral soul seems carved and 'bossed
With stone made eloquent and fair to see,
Forgotten all that's base and all impure,
For peace around us dwells and poetry,
With beauty that for ages shall endure:
Mar not the place with thought that harbours wrong,
But let it holy be with love and song!