POE TRY.
TO THOMAS TRAHERNE.
DEAR singer of a joy to us denied, Who in the midst of plenty still are poor, Gladly we put our grayer thoughts aside To drink God's wine with you, God's troubadour.
Whence got your soul its royal manners ? Whence This glad assertion in a world of cares ? A world in which in lofty innocence • You lived, a splendid alien, unawares.
The glories your transfigured childhood knew To wistful dreams of Paradise belong : We hearken, but we may not follow you Into your solitary heaven of song.
Strange pilgrim on the highway of unrest Your own disordered generation trod : They marked you not, men tainted and unblest, As singing to yourself you passed to God.
Within the sunny temple of your art Joy was at prayers and Pleasure sacrificed : Hellas is speaking from a purer heart, Apollo sittting at the feet of Christ. A. M. NEWTON.
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