Lord Cozens Hardy

Oh Lord Cozens Hardy

    Your mausoleum is cold,

The dry brown grass is brittle

    And frozen hard the mould

And where those Grecian columns rise

    So white among the dark

Of yew trees and of hollies in

    That corner of the park

By Norfolk oaks surrounded

    Whose branches seem to talk,

I know, Lord Cozens Hardy,

    I would not like to walk.

And even in the summer,

    On a bright East-Anglian day

When round your Doric portico

    Your children’s children play

There’s a something in the stillness

    And our waiting eyes are drawn

From the butler and the footman

    Bringing tea out on the lawn,

From the little silver spirit lamp

    That burns so blue and still,

To the half-seen mausoleum

    In the oak trees on the hill.

But when, Lord Cozens Hardy,

    November stars are bright,

And the King’s Head Inn at Letheringsett

    Is shutting for the night,

The villagers have told me

    That they do not like to pass

Near your curious mausoleum

    Moon-shadowed on the grass

For fear of seeing walking

    In the season of All Souls

That first Lord Cozens Hardy,

    The Master of the Rolls.