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 Gray,
Or Goldsmith, or that graver bard
Who led me to the lone church-yard.
Then- listened I to Spenser's strain,
Till 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
j Where none other ambled near . .
I obey'd, with love and fear.