Old-Fashioned Verse

In verse alone I ran not wild
When I was hardly more than child,
Contented with the native lay
Of Pope or Prior, Swift or Gay,
Or Goldsmith, or that graver bard
Who led me to the lone churchyard.
Then listened I to Spencer's strain,
Til Chaucer's Canterbury train
Came trooping past, and carried me
In more congenial company.
Soon my soul was hurried o'er
This bright scene: the ‘solemn roar’
Of organ, under Milton's hand,
Struck me mute: he bade me stand
Where none other ambled near . .
I obey'd, with love and fear.
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