Miscellanies in Verse and Prose :: :: University of Virginia Library

Argyle , deriv'd from Royal Blood,
My surest Guard, my sweetest Good;
O that inspir'd with happy Skill,
And force proportion'd to my Zeal,
In lasting Verse I cou'd proclaim
Thy matchless Worth, thy growing Fame!
Like Thee should be my num'rous Song,
Exact yet easy, smooth tho' strong.
But the small Genius I could boast,
Shipwreck'd on this dull Shore, is lost.
My banish'd Melancholy Muse,
Condemn'd to live a poor Recluse,
Mourns her neglected Charms decay'd,
And moults her Wings, and droops her Head.

When Horace by the Tyber's Flood
Sung young Augustus, Great and Good,
His chearful Hours with Pleasure fraught,
Enlarg'd his Soul, and tun'd his Thought.
Gay od'rous Flow'rs his Temples crown'd;
The Loves and Graces play'd around;
The Purple Chian flush'd his Wit;
He laugh'd, he lov'd, he sung, he writ.
Th' immortal Offspring of his Lyre,
Conceiv'd in Energy and Fire,
Still Triumphs over Age and Time,
Beautiful, Noble, and Sublime.

So, if my lucky Star would smile,
If Landed on the British Isle,
Within some little snug Retreat,
At length I could my Wishes meet;
On Thames fair Banks supinely laid,
Beneath a spreading Poplar's Shade,
By no uneasy Passions press'd,
(Which now in Crowds insult my Breast)

Tho' far unequal to his Strain,
I might not sing perhaps in vain.
Smit with Ambition of thy Praise,
I'd strive my feeble Notes to raise.
Thy Sight new Vigor wou'd infuse;
The Heroe is the Poet's Muse.
Not the shrill Lark, when Morn does spring,
Should higher Soar, or sweeter Sing.
The list'ning Groves should bless my Choice,
And Eccho learn to speak my Voice.
This Merit I'll, however, claim,
To Love, tho' not Adorn thy Name.