Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses A Collection of Poems. In Three Volumes. By Mr John Hopkins |
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 | Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses |  |
122
To Mr ---
Written before the Representation of his First Comedy.
Enough—I know thy strength, nor need delay,The dawning Muse fore-shows the Springing Day,
Nor will the rise of her own Phæbus stay.
Let others wait the Glory of the Skies,
I know, I know, the Sun and you must rise.
Strong in thy solid Beams, maintain thy Sphere;
Thy vig'rous Fires will Foggy Vapours rear.
I know thy Orb of Sence to fulness grown,
And by thy kind Reflection, Judge my own.
Thence, all my borrow'd, fainter glimm'rings shine,
I can't be wholly dark, while thou art mine.
In vain, once dampt, to weaker helps I run,
Yet Vesta's Fire was kindl'd by the Sun.
Hard fate of Debt! if I return thee Praise,
I send but smoak, for thy enliv'ning rays.
Languid my heat, void of the Flame of Wit.
Censur'd for what I have, and have not Writ.
123
They may excuse me, what I have not done.
Tho' to no haughty Genius will I bend,
My Muse must still her utmost Plumes extend,
And clap her Wings, and soar, to reach my Friend.
She, safe like Danae, from mortal Pow'rs,
Yields but to Jove, in his Celestial show'rs.
Tho' I, the weak born Castor, must decline,
In thee, my stronger, Brother-star, I'll shine.
Go on, Lov'd Youth! And lofty structures raise,
Already founded strong, in solid praise.
Congreve, Vanbrook, and Wicherly must sit,
The great Triumvirate of Comick Wit.
Where can I place my Friend; and sense approve?
Do thou excel thy self, then rise above.
Ascend not proudly, tho' thou can'st not fall,
Be what thou art, thou art already all.
Maintain thy own, nor scorn to Conquer slow,
And Young Octavius shall Augustus grow.
But Oh! Forgive thy undesigning Friend,
I cannot all, tho' all be thine, commend,
For thou, I own, ev'n thou thy self, may'st mend.
Let nought, offending Chastest ears, be told;
Make thy Muse modest, she may still be bold.
124
And still be Courted, as you pass, by me.
Shun the Just rage of Collier's sacred Pen,
The truly great, must be the best of Men.
From Heav'n immediate, Flows such Sence as thine
Warm, like the Poet's God, as well as shine.
Let the strong Muse, Divine in Numbers rise,
'Tis then, 'tis only then, she strikes the Skies.
| Amasia, or, The Works of the Muses | |