Ancestral Houses
Surely among a rich mans flowering lawns，
Amid the rustle1 of his planted hills，
Life overflows2 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.
Mere3 dreams， mere dreams！ Yet Homer had not sung
Had he not found it certain beyond dreams
That out of lifes own self-delight had sprung
The abounding4 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 masters 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 urn5 displays
Before the indifferent garden deities6；
O what if levelled lawns and gravelled ways
Where slippered7 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 haughtier8 age designed，
The pacing to and fro on polished floors
Amid great chambers9 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？
