I.—CHAUCER.
Yea! lovely are the hues still floating o'er
Thy rural visions, bard of olden time,
The form of purest Poesy flits before
My mental gaze, while bending o'er thy rhyme.
No lofty flight, bold, brilliant and sublime—
But tender beauty, and endearing grace,
And touching pathos in these lines I trace,
Oh! gentle poet of the northern clime.
And oft when dazzled by the gorgeous glow
And gilded luxury of modern rhymes,
Grateful I turn to the clear, quiet flow
Of thy sweet thoughts, which fall like pleasant chimes
From the "pure wells of English undefiled."
Thou wert inspired, thou, Poetry's true child.