University of Virginia Library

Say, Akenside, by the chaste Muse inspir'd,
And first among Fame's classic sons admir'd;
Say, why the lyre so backward to resume,
Unaw'd by ev'ry meaner poet's doom;
When glory courts your patriotic lays,
Bourbon's submission, and Britannia's praise.

Say, would your fancy soar, your bosom burn?
To Ocean's empress, wreath'd with laurel, turn;
Albion the fair! victorious o'er her foes,
Whose smile now universal peace bestows.
If any sparks, struck from celestial fire,
Your kindling Muse to ravishment inspire,
(And that there are, is echo'd back by fame)
Each great exploit will mount them up to flame.
The true-born sons of Genius we behold
Turn all beneath their magic touch to gold;
With them, whate'er the arduous task decreed,
But barely to attempt, is to succeed.
The sun but glimmers, while a cloud confines,
Light forms in prisms, and yonder rainbow shines.
Save then, from sordid scribblers of the age,
Who blot with worse than ink the sacred page;
Who with no genius, and with ears as bad,
Affect to run poetically mad;
Drawl out their expletives to form a rhyme,
The couplet good, if but the last words chyme:
Or, if they scorn the fetters Dryden chose,
Range through a chaos wild of blank-verse-prose.
From such unworthy candidates for fame,
Whom Pity's self can scarce as objects claim;
Like Mercy, all beneficent to save,
O! snatch Britannia's Heroes—from the grave.
For shall exploits, that ask no meaner pen,
Than his who sung inspir'd of arms and men;
Shall they be murder'd by that wretch's quill,
Who breaks Heaven's great command, “Thou shalt not kill?”
Exploits, the Julian æra that renew,
Worthy of Wolfe, who fell, but conquer'd too!
Shall the proud sons of battle, Albion's sons,
In whose high veins the blood of heroes runs;
Shall they, whose thunders on fam'd Minden roar'd,
Fall by the hand of Dulness undeplor'd!
Forbid it, Gratitude—that loudly claims
Trophies of praise to their heroic names!
Forbid it, Freedom—while immortal fame
Through ages spreads thy poet's honour'd name!
Forbid it, Akenside—while Edwards stand,
Till now, unrivall'd glories of our land;
While you Imagination's pow'rs inspire
With Plato's feeling, and with Pindar's fire!