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...THE EXPOSED NEST by ROBERT FROST LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER by THOMAS CAMPBELL A BORDER AFFAIR by CHARLES BADGER CLARK JR. FOR AN ALLEGORICAL DANCE OF WOMEN (BY ANDREA MANTEGNA) by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI THE TEARS OF THE POPLARS by EDITH MATILDA THOMAS THE SHIPMAN'S TALE by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE BRIDES' TRAGEDY: ACT 3, SCENE 2 by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |