 | Poems to Thespia |  |
To the SAME.
Me, the rough steeps of military fameStriving with care-worn mind in vain to climb,
Long hath the Muse deserted; nor sublime
Nor blither strains her presence now proclaim.
Else Downman, long ere this, my grateful voice
Had met thy ear; not echoing general praise,
199
Painting true passion in these nerveless days;
Nor that thou teachest virtue to rejoice
Amidst her sufferings for the common-weal;
But that returning health wooed to thy bower
By wedded Love, bids Friendship bless the hour.
J. G. SIMCOE. 1787.
| Poems to Thespia | |