DRYDEN.
Not dearer to the scholar's eye than mine,
(Albeit unlearned in ancient classic lore,)
The daintie Poesie of days of yore—
The choice old English rhyme—and over thine,
Oh! "glorious John," delightedly I pore—
Keen, vigorous, chaste, and full of harmony,
Deep in the soil of our humanity
It taketh root, until the goodly tree
Of Poesy puts forth green branch and bough,
With bud and blossom sweet. Through the rich gloom
Of one embowered haunt I see thee now,
Where 'neath thy hand the "Flower and Leaflet" bloom.
That hand to dust hath mouldered long ago,
Yet its creations with immortal life still glow.