wallowing in luxury, and seldom or never preaching, St. Peter certainly was a fool, who took so hard a way of travelling thither, by fasting, preaching, abstinence, and humiliation. The pope could not deny the reasonableness of the reply. Richard Plantagenet. A Legendary "The work is done, the structure is complete, Long may this produce of my humble toil Uninjur'd stand, and echo long repeat, Round the dear walls, benevolence and * Sir Thomas Moyle, possessor of Eastwell Place, in the county of Kent, in the year 1546, gave Richard Plantagenet (who had been for many years his chief bricklayer) a piece of ground, and permission to build himself a house thereon. The poem opens just when Richard is supposed to have finished his task. Eastwell Place hath since been in the possession of the Earls of Winchelsea. So Richard spake, as he survey'd The dwelling he had rais'd; And in the fulness of his heart, His gen'rous patron prais'd. Hi Moyle o'erheard, whose wand'ring step- My mind, I see, misgave me not, My doubtings now are clear; Thou oughtest not, in poor attire,. Have dwelt a menial here. To drudgery, and servile toil, By birth and blood, but thereto wrought "Is it not so? That crimson glow That flushes o'er thy cheek, And downcast eye, true answer give; And thy tongue need not speak.. "Oft have I mark'd thee, when unseen "Hast thou not shunn'd thy untaught mates, And to some secret nook, Thy lonely step betook? "There hath not thy attention dwelt, Upon the letter'd page, Lost, as it seem'd, to all beside, Like some sequester'd sage? "And would'st thou not, with eager haste, The precious volume hide, If sudden some intruder's eye, "Oft have I deem'd thou would'st explore The Greek and Roman page, And oft have yearn'd to view the theme, That did thy hours engage. "But sorrow, greedy, grudging, coy, Esteems of mighty price Its treasur'd cares; unto the world The scantiest share denies. "All as the miser's heaped hoards, To him alone confin'd; They serve at once to sooth, and pain, The wretched owner's mind. "Me had capricious fortune doom'd, Thine equal in degree, Long, long ere now, I had desir'd, "But who their worldly honours wear, With meekness, chaste and due, Decline to ask, lest the request, Should bear commandment's hue. "Yet now thy tongue hath spoke aloud, Thy grateful piety; No longer be thy story kept, In painful secrecy. "Give me to know thy dawn of life; Unfold with simple truth, Not to thy master, but thy friend, "Now late in life, 'tis time I ween, To give thy labours o'er ;. "Here shalt thou find a quiet rest, "Hast thou a wish, a hope to frame, Beyond this neat abode ? Is there a good, a higher bliss,. "Is there within thine aged breast, The smallest aching void? |