 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
167
SAMUEL ROGERS.
Nothing of thee shall perish, rare old Man!Thou art an heirloom to the world and us;
Let even me then bring my homage thus,
And greet thee with such greeting as I can:
For thou art not thine own; the nations claim
Thee for their children's children, veteran,
A spirit walking in immortal fame,
The friend of Memory: Death is none of thine,
Nor Self, the death of soul; thou wilt not spurn
An acolyte, whose venturous footsteps turn
Out of the track to offer at thy shrine:
Because Italian suns and classic skies
Have ripened all thy heart-blood into wine
Excellent, spiritual, pure and wise.
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |