 | A Collection Of Poems |  |
To a Friend;
In Imitation of PROPERTIUS. Lib. 1, Eleg. 7.
Whilst thou, great Bard, art filld with nobler Fire,
And into Musick wak'st the Tragick Lyre,
Commanding us with dying Kings to Groan,
And make each suff'ring Heroe's Woe our own.
Thy Friend as usual lighter Themes employ,
The charming Cælia, Beautiful and Coy
Requires my Verse, to her alone I bend,
And only touch the Lyre at her command.
Hence must my Fame, and hence my Joy too flow,
Hence my Delight, and hence my Laurels grow.
And into Musick wak'st the Tragick Lyre,
Commanding us with dying Kings to Groan,
And make each suff'ring Heroe's Woe our own.
91
The charming Cælia, Beautiful and Coy
Requires my Verse, to her alone I bend,
And only touch the Lyre at her command.
Hence must my Fame, and hence my Joy too flow,
Hence my Delight, and hence my Laurels grow.
Thou too, my Friend, if e'er thy Soul shall feel
A Pain which none but those who Love can tell;
Shalt then, like me, in softer Numbers write,
Shalt then, like me, to Love alone indite.
In vain shalt each sublimer Muse invoke
And touch the Lyre unansw'ring to thy Stroke.
Mute shall the wretched Polinices lie,
And fierce Eteocles in Silence die.
Then Scorn not rashly my too tender Lays,
Nor think a fair one's Smile but empty Praise,
Least angry Love the Wrong with Int'rest pays
A Pain which none but those who Love can tell;
Shalt then, like me, in softer Numbers write,
Shalt then, like me, to Love alone indite.
In vain shalt each sublimer Muse invoke
And touch the Lyre unansw'ring to thy Stroke.
Mute shall the wretched Polinices lie,
And fierce Eteocles in Silence die.
Then Scorn not rashly my too tender Lays,
Nor think a fair one's Smile but empty Praise,
Least angry Love the Wrong with Int'rest pays
| A Collection Of Poems | |