The merry band that started long ago
Upon their journey to a-Becket's shrine,
Were happy that a poet's pen divine
Inspired by all a genial wit can know,
Or sympathetic human heart bestow,
Recorded in immortal rhythmic line,
As sweet as breath of old Provencal wine,
Their pilgrim tales and songs of joy and woe.
We start to-night upon our pilgrimage,
Who worship at a holier shrine than they —
The living temple of the sacred muse:
May she who is our patron saint infuse,
Illume our souls; and raise some Pen, I pray,
To leave the world a noble heritage.