A Book of Sonnets

St. Bototlph's Town!  Hither across the plains
  And fens of Lincolnshire, in garb austere,
  There came a Saxon monk, and founded here
  A Priory, pillaged by marauding Danes,
So that thereof no vestige now remains;
  Only a name, that, spoken loud and clear,
  And echoed in another hemisphere,
  Survives the sculptured walls and painted panes.
St. Botolph's Town!  Far over leagues of land
  And leagues of sea looks forth its noble tower,
  And far around the chiming bells are heard;
So may that sacred name forever stand
  A landmark, and a symbol of the power,
  That lies concentred in a single word.