Have you got in your "Christian Poet" a poem by Sir H. Wotton--"How
happy is he born or taught, that serveth not another's will"? It is very
beautiful, and fit for a Paradise of any kind. Here are some lines from
old Lily, which your ear will put in the proper metre. It gives a fine
description of a fellow walking in spring, and looking here and there,
and pricking up his ears, as different birds sing: "What bird so sings,
but doth so wail? Oh! 'tis the ravished nightingale: 'Jug, jug, jug,
jug, terue,' she cries, and still her woes at midnight rise. Brave
prick-song! who is't now we hear? It is the lark so shrill and clear:
against heaven's gate he claps his wings, the morn not waking till he
sings. Hark, too, with what a pretty note poor Robin Redbreast tunes his
throat: Hark, how the jolly cuckoos sing, 'Cuckoo' to welcome in the
spring: 'Cuckoo' to welcome in the spring.'" This is very English, and
pleasant, I think: and so I hope you will. I could have sent you many a
more sentimental thing, but nothing better. I admit nothing into my
Paradise, but such as breathe content, and virtue....

The Church, like the Ark of Noah, is worth saving: not for the sake of
the unclean beasts that almost filled it, and probably made most noise
and clamour in it, but for the little corner of rationality, that was as
much distressed by the stink within as by the tempest without....


[Sidenote: _Edward FitzGerald_]

Some one from this house is going to London: and I will try and write
you some lines now in half an hour before dinner. 'I am going out for
the evening to my old lady, who teaches me the names of the stars, and
other chaste information. You see, Master John Allen, that if I do not
come to London (and I have no thought of going yet) and you will not