The poetical works of Leigh Hunt Now finally collected, revised by himself, and edited by his son, Thornton Hunt. With illustrations by Corbould |
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 | The poetical works of Leigh Hunt |  |
Custom itself is an old friend with us;
Though change we make a friend, too, if it come
To better custom: nay, to bury him,
Provided soul be gone, and it be done
Rev'rently and kindly; and we then install
His son, or set a new one in his place;
For all good honest customs, from all lands,
Find welcome here,—seats built up in old elms
From France; and evening dances on the green;
And servants (home's inhabiting strangers) turn'd
To zealous friends; and gipsy meals, whose smoke
Warms houseless glades; and the good bout Chinese
At pen and ink, in rhyming summer bow'rs,
Temper'd with pleasant penalties of wine.
The villagers love us; and on Sabbath-days,
(Such luck is ours, and round harmonious life)
In an old, ivied church (which God preserve,
And make a mark forever of the love
That by mild acquiescence bears all change
And keeps all better'd good!) no priest like ours
Utters such Christian lore, so final sweet,
So fit for audience in those flowery dells.
Not a young heart feels strange, nor old misgives:
You scarcely can help thinking, that the sound
Must pierce with sweetness to the very graves.
Though change we make a friend, too, if it come
To better custom: nay, to bury him,
Provided soul be gone, and it be done
Rev'rently and kindly; and we then install
His son, or set a new one in his place;
For all good honest customs, from all lands,
Find welcome here,—seats built up in old elms
From France; and evening dances on the green;
And servants (home's inhabiting strangers) turn'd
To zealous friends; and gipsy meals, whose smoke
Warms houseless glades; and the good bout Chinese
At pen and ink, in rhyming summer bow'rs,
Temper'd with pleasant penalties of wine.
The villagers love us; and on Sabbath-days,
(Such luck is ours, and round harmonious life)
In an old, ivied church (which God preserve,
And make a mark forever of the love
That by mild acquiescence bears all change
249
Utters such Christian lore, so final sweet,
So fit for audience in those flowery dells.
Not a young heart feels strange, nor old misgives:
You scarcely can help thinking, that the sound
Must pierce with sweetness to the very graves.
| The poetical works of Leigh Hunt | |