TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
JOHN HILY ADDINGTON.
A swain, within whose native vale
alone,
Ere this blest time, was heard his simple reed,
Ambitious now, of glory's dazzling meed,
Essays the lofty lyre's majestic tone;
Feeling, perchance, nor Fancy, yet are fled,
Nor lost the charms that from their influence spring:
For those celestial forms were wont to fling,
Their faery visions o'er my youthful head;
But where amid Expression's copious store,
For raptur'd thought fit diction may I find?
How dress th' exuberance of my grateful mind,
In chaste, though glowing terms, untried before?
Patron and pride! o'er my unvarying cheek,
No blush for servile flatt'ry shall arise;
Yet ah! while timid doubts, in vain, disguise
The modest soul,—let meaning Silence speak:
Thou canst not, surely, Atticus! refuse
That poor, frail tribute of th' indebted Muse!
