With no poetick ardors fir'd, I press the bed where Wilmot lay: That here he lov'd, or here expir'd, Begets no numbers grave or gay. But 'neath thy roof, Argyle, are bred Such thoughts, as prompt the brave to lie, Stretch'd forth in honour's nobler bed, Beneath a nobler roof, the sky. Such flames, as high in patriots burn, Yet stoop to bless a child or wife: And such as wicked kings may mourn, When freedom is more dear than life. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DURING WIND AND RAIN by THOMAS HARDY THE FORERUNNERS by GEORGE HERBERT WHEN I HEARD AT THE CLOSE OF THE DAY by WALT WHITMAN AT GIBRALTAR by GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY THE PRETENCE by JOSEPH BEAUMONT A PRAYER by HENRY MAXIMILIAN BEERBOHM EPIGRAM ON ONE BORN BLIND, AND SO DEAD by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |