But wilt thou not from London town
Journey some day to Northolt down,
Song to obtain, O sweet reward,
And walk the garden of the Bard?—­
But thy employ, the year throughout,
Is wandering the White Tower about,
Moulding and stamping coin with care,
The farthing small and shilling fair. 
Let for a month thy Mint lie still,
Covetous be not, little Will;
Fly from the birth-place of the smoke,
Nor in that wicked city choke;
O come, though money’s charms be strong,
And if thou come I’ll give thee song,
A draught of water, hap what may,
Pure air to make thy spirits gay
And welcome from an honest heart,
That’s free from every guileful art. 
I’ll promise—­fain thy face I’d see—­
Yet something more, sweet friend, to thee: 
The poet’s cwrw {79} thou shalt prove,
In talk with him the garden rove,
Where in each leaf thou shalt behold
The Almighty’s wonders manifold;
And every flower, in verity,
Shall unto thee show visibly,
In every fibre of its frame,
His deep design, who made the same.—­
A thousand flowers stand here around,
With glorious brightness some are crown’d: 
How beauteous art thou, lily fair! 
With thee no silver can compare: 
I’ll not forget thy dress outshone
The pomp of regal Solomon. 
I write the friend, I love so well,
No sounding verse his heart to swell. 
The fragile flowerets of the plain
Can rival human triumphs vain. 
I liken to a floweret’s fate
The fleeting joys of mortal state;
The flower so glorious seen to-day
To-morrow dying fades away;
An end has soon the flowery clan,
And soon arrives the end of man;
The fairest floweret, ever known,
Would fade when cheerful summer’s flown;
Then hither haste, ere turns the wheel! 
Old age doth on these flowers steal;
Though pass’d two-thirds of Autumn-time,
Of summer temperature’s the clime;
The garden shows no sickliness,
The weather old age vanquishes,
The leaves are greenly glorious still—­
But friend! grow old they must and will.

The rose, at edge of winter now,
Doth fade with all its summer glow;
Old are become the roses all,
Decline to age we also shall;
And with this prayer I’ll end my lay,
Amen, with me, O Parry say;
To us be rest from all annoy,
And a robust old age of joy;
May we, ere pangs of death we know,
Back to our native Mona go;
May pleasant days us there await,
United and inseparate! 
And the dread hour, when God shall please
To bid our mutual journey cease,
May Christ, who reigns in heaven above,
Receive us to his breast of love!

THE RISING OF ACHILLES.

From the Iliad.