ANGELS, they say, are with us unawares.
Earth’s noblest elbow those who know them not.
— I went — a pilgrim to no nameless spot —
And amidst up-piled terraces and squares,
And wood-clad hills and pleasantest parterres,
Held in my soul but one pervading thought —
Even here has England’s greatest cast his lot,
Eyeing the world for which he thinks and cares.
The Sage — whence flows the wisdom that exalts
The Poet — whence the splendours that illume?
The Man — who cheers the virtues, chides the faults,
Where’s “the old garden” which his thoughts perfume,
His path who in his proud course never halts?
None know — and humbled, I my way resume.
J. W. DALBY.