And as it happens, this psalm-singing, or, at least, exquisitely psalm-translating, squire, mine ancient neighbour, is just as good a canticle-singer. I know no such lovely love poems as his, since Dante's. Here is a specimen for you, which I choose because of its connection with the modern subject of railroads; only note, first, The word Squire, I told you, meant primarily a "rider." And it does not at all mean, and never can mean, a person carried in an iron box by a kettle on wheels. Accordingly, this squire, riding to visit his mistress along an old English road, addresses the following sonnet to the ground of it,--gravel or turf, I know not which:-- "Highway, since you my chief Parnassus be; And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet, Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet, More oft than to a chamber melody; Now, blessed you, bear onward blessed me, To her, where I my heart, safe left, shall meet; My Muse and I must you of duty greet With thanks and wishes; wishing thankfully-- Be you still fair, honour'd by public heed; By no encroachment wrong'd, nor time forgot; Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed; And that you know, I envy you no lot Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss,-- Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may kiss.'" Hundreds of years! You think that a mistake? No, it is the very rapture of love. A lover like this does not believe his mistress can grow old, or die. How do you think the other verses read, apropos of railway signals and railway scrip? "Be you still fair, honour'd by public heed, [96] Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed." But to keep our eyes and ears with our squire. Presently he comes in sight of his mistress's house, and then sings this sonnet:-- "I see the house; my heart, thyself contain! Beware full sails drown not thy tott'ring barge; Lest joy, by nature apt spirits to enlarge, Thee, to thy wreck, beyond thy limits strain. Nor do like lords, whose weak, confused brain, Not pointing to fit folks each undercharge, While ev'ry office themselves will discharge, With doing all, leave nothing done but pain. But give apt servants their due place; let eyes See beauty's total sum, summ'd in her face; Let ears hear speech, which wit to wonder ties; Let breath suck up those sweets; let arms embrace The globe of weal; lips, Love's indentures make; Thou, but of all the kingly tribute take!" And here is one more, written after a quarrel, which is the prettiest of all as a song; and interesting for you to compare with the Baron of Bradwardine's song at Lucky M'Leary's:-- "All my sense thy sweetness gained Thy fair hair my heart enchained; My poor reason thy words moved, So that thee, like heav'n, I loved.