 | Poems to Thespia |  |
189
To the SAME.
Thy modest nature, Downman, will not scornThis small, poor offering from a friendly hand,
Howe'er unfit that altar to adorn,
Which Love and Genius raised at thy command.
Yet while the sonnet stints my votive strains
To spare the exertion of a feeble muse,
Know, my big heart such narrow bounds disdains,
And throbs it's fulness wider to diffuse.
Could I, (alas! a rival but in woe)
With health, possess the skill to match thy lay,
Then would my zeal with genial ardour glow
Thy merits, and my friendship to display:
And surer still to charm, my song should be
More full of lovely Thespia than of thee.
1781. J. COLE.
| Poems to Thespia | |