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. 

Poem – Girl To A Soldier On Leave

Love! You love me — your eyes

Have looked through death at mine.

You have tempted a grave too much

I let you — I repine.
I love you – Titan lover,

My own storm-days Titan.

Greater than the son of Zeus,

I know whom I would choose.
Titan — my splendid rebel 

The old Prometheus

Wanes like a ghost before your power —

His pangs were joys to yours.
Pallid days arid and wan

Tied your soul fast.

Babel-cities smoky tops

Pressed upon your growth
Weary gyves. What were you

But a word in the brains ways,

Or the sleep of Circes swine.

One gyve holds you yet.
It held you hiddenly on the Somme

Tied from my heart at home.

O must it loosen now? — I wish

You were bound with the old gyves.
Love! you love me — your eyes

Have looked through death at mine.

You have tempted a grave too much.

I let you – I repine.