To Saxham

Though frost and snow lock'd from mine

That beauty which without door lies,

Thy gardens, orchards, walks, that soI might not all thy pleasures know,

Yet, thou within thy

Art of thyself so delicate,

So full of native sweets, that

Thy roof with inward happiness,

As neither from nor to thy

Winter takes aught, or spring adds more.

The cold and frozen air had starv'd    Much poor, if not by thee preserv'd,

Whose prayers have made thy table

With plenty, far above the rest.

The season hardly did

Coarse cates unto thy neighbors' board,     Yet thou hadst dainties, as the

Had only been thy volary;       Or else the birds, fearing the

Might to another Deluge grow,

The pheasant, partridge, and the

Flew to thy house, as to the Ark.

The willing ox of himself

Home to the slaughter, with the lamb,

And every beast did thither

Himself, to be an offering.

The scaly herd more pleasure took,

Bath'd in thy dish, than in the brook;

Water, earth, air, did all

To pay their tributes to thy fire,

Whose cherishing flames themselves

Through every room, where they

The night, and cold aboard; whilst they,

Like suns within, keep endless day.

Those cheerful beams send forth their

To all that wander in the night,

And seem to beckon from aloof      The weary pilgrim to thy roof,

Where if, refresh'd, he will away,

He's faily welcome; or if stay,

Far more; which he shall hearty

Both from the master and the hind.      The stranger's welcome each man

Stamp'd on his cheerful brow doth wear,

Nor doth this welcome or his

Grow less 'cause he stays longer here;

There's none observes, much less repines,     How often this man sups or dines.

Thou hast no porter at the doorT'examine or keep back the poor;

Nor locks nor bolts: thy gates have

Made only to let strangers in;

Untaught to shut, they do not

To stand wide open all the year,

Careless who enters, for they

Thou never didst deserve a foe;

And as for thieves, thy bounty's such,

They cannot steal, thou giv'st so much.