Poems to Thespia :: :: University of Virginia Library

Rude tho my verse, and uninspired my lays,
While each rough line the unpractised hand betrays,
Tho no kind Muse has taught the pleasing art
By powerful numbers to affect the heart,
Yet let me not in discontented strain
Bewail my fate, and peevishly clomplain.
When genuine Bards soar high on Fancy's wing
I catch each sound, transported as they sing,

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Find their sweet harmony my bosom thrill,
And feel in every nerve their matchless skill.

Thus form'd; whene'er you lift, my much-loved friend,
Your tuneful voice, enraptured I attend.
Whether you paint the enchanting Muses' Land,
Where bright creations rise at your command;
Whether with Tragic notes you shake the soul,
And every passion at your will controul;
Whether by softer tones the heart you move
When you to Thespia breathe the tale of love;
Or pour instruction on the docile mind
Of the fond Mother blest with taste refined,
Who in melodious airs, serenely mild,
Is taught to invest with health her darling Child;
To all I listen with attentive ear,
New stores collect, and gain delight sincere.
And equal pleasure must thy song impart
To every lover of the tuneful art.

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To make men wiser; to point out the road
Which leads from error's maze, to truth's abode;
Affliction's pangs, and misery's sting to ease,
Nicely to observe, and cure the dire disease;
To cause each social good around us flow
In various streams, is the prime bliss below.
That bliss, my Friend, dwells ever in thy mind,
Thy writings please, and benefit mankind:
By Pæan's art, and penetrating skill
Thou curest (if art can cure) the body's ill:
To mental anguish thou can'st give relief,
And heal by sympathy the wounds of grief.

Oh! may all-gracious Heaven, thy future days
Illume, my Downman, with it's brightest rays;
With life protracted may each joy keep pace,
A life like thine's a blessing to our race.
But when, (be that a far, far distant hour)
Thou shall submit to death's relentless power,
Of thee no common portion shall survive,
For works of real genius ever live.

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Thy friendship, which for many a circling year
With liberal kindness thou hast bid me share,
(Me, in the humble paths of life who move,
And who thy soul in nothing can improve)
I truly value—from it I receive
All the best wealth, the best of hearts can give.

Oh! while the vital current swells my veins,
Till death shall urge me to his cold domains,
To me, indulgent Heaven, this boon extend,
Happy, and proud, that Downman calls me Friend.

JOHN CODRINGTON. Sept. 7th, 1788.