Poem – Verses Left My Mr.Pope

With no poetic ardour fir’d
I press the bed where Wilmot lay;

That here he lov’d, or here expir’d,

Begets no numbers grave or gay.
Beneath thy roof, Argyle, are bred

Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie

Stretch’d out 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. 

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About भण्डारी2013

Has a reflective and idealistic types of personality. Loves to participate in Social activities. Extremely loyal by nature. Laid back unless a strongly held value is threatened and a talented writer too.
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