 | New Poems by George Crabbe |  |
Such the Companions of Elizabeth.
Here she resided, of the World she knew
What these could give—no more! Some pious books
Of solid practical Divinity,
Laid in a quiet Case! the Vicar lent
Monthly a Magazine, & Farmer John
A weekly Paper fraught with Country News.
But not this Reading, tho' she often read
And try'd to make Another's thoughts her own!
Not Conversation with her Village Friends,
Nor closer Converse with the dearer One,
Not the good Vicar's Piety or Pride,
When dwelling on ye Sermon of the Day!
Nor Song of Morning Bird nor, sweeter yet,
The varied Sweetness of the Bird of Night,
Nor these, nor aught of Nature she [?removed]
On Earth or in ye Waters, nor the Tribes
Of sportive Insects on the Wing, at Eve,
Soft but not silent! satisfied the Heart
That ever sought for that it never found!
Here she resided, of the World she knew
What these could give—no more! Some pious books
Of solid practical Divinity,
Laid in a quiet Case! the Vicar lent
Monthly a Magazine, & Farmer John
A weekly Paper fraught with Country News.
61
And try'd to make Another's thoughts her own!
Not Conversation with her Village Friends,
Nor closer Converse with the dearer One,
Not the good Vicar's Piety or Pride,
When dwelling on ye Sermon of the Day!
Nor Song of Morning Bird nor, sweeter yet,
The varied Sweetness of the Bird of Night,
Nor these, nor aught of Nature she [?removed]
On Earth or in ye Waters, nor the Tribes
Of sportive Insects on the Wing, at Eve,
Soft but not silent! satisfied the Heart
That ever sought for that it never found!
| New Poems by George Crabbe | |