XXIX. A POEM BY SIR WALTER RALEIGH,1 HALL I, like an hermit, dwell Calling home the smallest part To bestow it, where I may If she undervalue me, What care I how fair she be? Were her tresses angel-gold, To convert them to a braid, If the mine be grown so free, Were her hand as rich a prize If she seem not chaste to me, What care I how chaste she be? 1 "London Magazine," August, 1734, p. 444, entitled as above. Mentioned on that authority only, by Oldys and (apparently) Ritson, and appended to Raleigh's "Life" by Cayley. No; she must be perfect snow, Then, if others share with me, XXX. TO HIS SINGULAR FRIEND, WILLIAM LITHGOW.1 (1618.) HILES I admire thy first and second W ways, Long ten years wandering in the world-wide bounds; I rest amazed to think on these assays That thy first travel to the world forth sounds: In bravest sense, compendious ornate style, Didst show most rare adventures to this isle. And now thy second pilgrimage I see At London thou resolvest to put in light; Thy Libyan ways, so fearful to the eye, And Garamants their strange amazing sight. 1 Prefixed to Lithgow's "Pilgrim's Farewell," 1618. Meanwhile this work affords a three-fold gain In fury of thy fierce Castalian vein; As thou for travels brookest the greatest name, So voyage on, increase, maintain the same! W. R. |