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...FROM FRANCE by ISAAC ROSENBERG GETTING A PURCHASE by KAREN SWENSON THE PRICE OF WOMEN by KAREN SWENSON SONGS AND THE POET (FOR SARA TEASDALE) by LOUIS UNTERMEYER EPITAPH: FOR A VIRGIN LADY by COUNTEE CULLEN |