One Is Not

There is a cross in Oxford, built of stone,
They call it there "The Martyrs' Monument ;"
Wise-hearted workmen rear'd it, and they spent
In that proud toil, labour and gold unknown.
There have they pictur'd many a visible thought
And deep device, whereby the fathers wrought
Doctrines in walls, and gave dumb roofs a tone.
Yet, hearken ! in yon cloister dim and old,
They show a simple casket fram'd to hold
An ancient staff. Ye walls of stern Saint John !
Watch well that relic of the days gone by —
Thereon Laud lean'd when he went forth to die.
Ha ! stout old man, thy fame is still our own,
Though banish'd be thy memory from the graven stone !