Classic Poem

A squire he had whose name was Ralph,
That in the adventure went his half.
(Though writers, for more stately tone,
Do call him Ralpho: 'tis all one:
And when we can with metre safe,
We'll call him so, if not plain Raph.)

His knowledge was not far behind
The Knight's, but of another kind,
And he another way came by it:
Some call it gifts, and some New Light;
A liberal art, that costs no pains
Of study, industry or brains.
His wits were sent him for a token,
But in the carriage cracked and broken.
Like commendation ninepence, crooked
With to and from my love, it looked.
He ne'er considered it, as loath
To look a gift-horse in the mouth,
And very wisely would lay forth
No more upon it than 'twas worth.
But as he got it freely, so
He spent it frank and freely too.
For Saints themselves will sometimes be
Of gifts that cost them nothing, free.
By means of this, with hem and cough,
Prolongers to enlightened snuff,
He could deep mysteries unriddle
As easily as thread a needle;
For as of vagabonds we say
That they are ne'er beside their way,
Whate'er men speak by this New Light,
Still they are sure to be i'th' right.
'Tis a dark-lantern of the Spirit,
Which none see by but those that bear it:
A Light that falls down from on high
For spiritual trades to cozen by;
And Ignis Fatuus that bewitches,
And leads men into pools and ditches,
To make them dip themselves, and sound
For Christendom in dirty pond;
To dive like wildfowl for Salvation,
And fish to Regeneration.
This Light inspires, and plays upon
The nose of Saint like bagpipe-drone,
And speaks through hollow empty soul,
As through a trunk or whispering hole,
Such language as no mortal ear
But spiritual eavesdroppers can hear.
So Phoebus or some friendly Muse
Into small poets song infuse,
Which they at secondhand rehearse
Through reed or bagpipe, verse for verse.