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BORN owner of old acres,
an old hall,
And wide old woods that made the slopes like hills,
Was Gervase Lester, whom his mother taught
To strut among them masterwise ere yet
His unbreeched limbs were strong enough to take
The lithesomeness of schoolboys. In the grey
Of evening hours till bedtime, when she spent
Her sweet caresses on him and her talk
Was mother-like and childish by the fire,
Instead of fairy tales sheed pleasure him
With vague quaint legends of his ancestors
Scowling or simpering at them from their frames.
It did not harm him - likelier did good:
For afterwards, if Gervase Lester mused
A trifle arrogantly on his grace
Of being born in the appendix to the list
Of these historic Lesters, he recalled
Unconsciously the chime of the dear voice
That told their stories, and of some grave notes
Mixed with the prattle, and he took to heart
How proud his mother meant to be of him
If she had lived to see him ripen out
To the fullblown Lester, and so tried to keep
A something of his likeness to her hopes.
Although, among an eager college clique
Of crude philosophers apt to forget
The answers to the questions in the schools,
Not valuing like the examiners
Mere musty grammar and strait sciences,
But who, to make amends, would show by the hour
How different and wide the scope should be
Of their teachers' teaching, and were overbrimmed
With universal thoughts, he learned to boast
Some creeds and principles which would have made
That mild upholder of despotic rules
And ancient strict observances turn pale
With fear and sorrow for him and look up
To see if each right Lester did not stir
And shudder in his frame.
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