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Alexander Pope - Verses Left by Mr. Pope
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With no poetic ardour fir`d
I press the bed where Wilmot lay;
That here he lov`d, or here expir`d,
Begets no numbers grave or gay.

Beneath thy roof, Argyle, are bred
Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie
Stretch`d out in honour`s nobler bed,
Beneath a nobler roof — the sky.

Such flames as high in patriots burn,
Yet stoop to bless a child or wife;
And such as wicked kings may mourn,
When freedom is more dear than life.
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