 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
128
EVELYN.
Wotton, fair Wotton, thine ancestral Hall,Thy green fresh meadows, coursed by ductile streams
That ripple joyous in the noonday beams
Leaping adown the frequent waterfall,
Thy princely forest, and calm-slumbering lake,
Are hallow'd spots and classic precincts all;
For in thy terraced walks and beechen grove
The gentle generous Evelyn wont to rove,
Peace-lover, who of Nature's garden spake
From cedars to the hyssop on the wall:
O righteous spirit, fall'n on evil times,
Thy loyal zeal, and learned piety
Blest all around thee, wept thy country's crimes,
And taught the world how Christians live and die.
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |