A poet keep his mouth shut, for in truth

We have no gift to set a statesman right;

He has had enough of meddling who can please

A young girl in the indolence of her youth,

Or an old man upon a winter's night.

[69]

[69]

IN MEMORY OF ALFRED POLLEXFEN

Five-and-twenty years have gone

Since old William Pollexfen

Laid his strong bones down in death

By his wife Elizabeth

In the grey stone tomb he made.

And after twenty years they laid

In that tomb by him and her,

His son George, the astrologer;

And Masons drove from miles away

To scatter the Acacia spray

Upon a melancholy man

Who had ended where his breath began.

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