University of Virginia Library


59

TO THE Lady W---y M---e,

UPON HER POEMS Being publish'd without a Name.

No Critick's Wit, or Censure can accuse
Unbrib'd Applauses to an unknown Muse;
The Worth of Praises bears one certain Mark,
And, like good Deeds, are truest in the Dark:
Had we beheld the Beauties you possess,
We might give more—and yet You merit less;

60

Coxcombs and Fops might say, to our Disgrace,
We writ not to your Head—but to your Face.
Such Praise is yours, as when some Angel sings,
Hiding his Heavenly Form beneath his Wings,
We know not whom to thank, yet ravish'd, hear,
And call the Soul to listen at the Ear.
Great Minds are Secret; but the Vain stand forth,
And call the Publick to commend their Worth;
Strangers to Pleasures of a Soul refin'd,
They love Fame's Trumpet for the Noise, and Wind.
Thus Insects play and hover in the Light,
While the bold Eagle mounts beyond our Sight.
Thus Streams in Subterraneous Channels glide,
Yet paint the Meadows in their Summer Pride;
The Swain unknowing mows the fertile Green,
And reaps the Blessings of a Pow'r unseen.