The Works of Horace In English Verse :: :: University of Virginia Library

Think not, my Lord, these Strains shall die,
Or sink in Lethe's Stream;
No—they shall Time's rude Grasp defy,
Protected by their Theme.
Tho' foremost in the Lists of Fame
We matchless Milton place,
Yet long will Pope's distinguish'd Name
The Muse's Annals grace.
Tho' Nature's own heart-melting Lyre
Immortal Shakespeare won,
Still deigns the Goddess to inspire
Her favourite Richardson.
Our Edwards and our Henries Praise
Grows with increasing Years,
And Britons still attune their Lays
To Cressy and Poictiers;

474

Yet shall each Veteran Chief with Flowers
Bestrew his Anna's Shrine,
And long to Fame shall Blenheim's Towers
Their Marlb'rough's Deeds consign.
Before great Alfred, we could boast
Of Princes brave and good,
Yet all, by Bards unsung, are lost
In dark Oblivion's Flood.
In Marston's Shades unseen, unknown,
Conceal'd thy Virtues lie;
O let them now, in Senate shown,
Attract the public Eye.
Tho' every Muse her Spirit breathes
On Thee; and every Grace
Adorns thy Brow with Olive Wreaths,
Familiar to thy Race;
Yet now the Converse of the Dead
For active Scenes decline;
For O! the Living want each Head,
And claim each Heart like thine.
To Laurentinum's Grove retir'd,
Thy Pliny fled from Care,
Yet, when his Country's Voice requir'd,
He fill'd the Consul's Chair.

475

Then, like that Consul, lend thy Aid
To prop our tottering Walls;
For Rome demands thee from the Shade,
And hoary Nerva calls.

1757.

J. D.