With no poetic ardour fir'd <br />I press the bed where Wilmot lay; <br />That here he lov'd, or here expir'd, <br />Begets no numbers grave or gay. <br /> <br />Beneath thy roof, Argyle, are bred <br />Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie <br />Stretch'd out in honour's nobler bed, <br />Beneath a nobler roof - the sky. <br /> <br />Such flames as high in patriots burn, <br />Yet stoop to bless a child or wife; <br />And such as wicked kings may mourn, <br />When freedom is more dear than life.<br /><br />Alexander Pope<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/verses-left-by-mr-pope/
