Great Men dive deep down into wisdom’s river—
The poet, philosopher, and sage—
For wisdom’s pearls, which showeth forth for ever,
Nor waste their sweetness or grow dull with age.
Who would not walk through ruins old and hoary,
And make each relic and persue his search?
Who would not listen and applaud each story,
Told of an ancient good and English Church?
Each view so grand, mixed up with sacred singing,
Of that old Church—I humbly call it mine,
For still my heart to it is ever clinging,
And He who died for me in ancient Palestine.
The Old Hand-Wool-Combers:
Lines written on the occasion of a Banquet given by His Worship the Mayor (Ald. ICKRINGILL), March 28th, 1891.
Come hither my muse and give me a start,
And let me give praise to the one famous art;
For it’s not an M.P. or a Mayor that I toast,
But the ancient Wool-comber, the Knight of the post.
In the brave days of old when I was a boy,
I went to the Comb Shop, my heart full of joy;
Where I listened to stories and legends of old,
Which to me were more precious than silver or gold.