Poem by Alexander Pope

Verses Left by 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. 

1. Epistle to Miss Blount, On Her Leaving the Town, After the Coronation
2. On a Fan of the Author's Design
3. In Imitation of Chaucer
4. On Seeing the Ladies Crux-Easton Walk in the Woods by the Grotto
5. On the Countess of Burlington Cutting Paper

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