University of Virginia Library


83

TO A GENTLEMAN UPON HIS POEMS.

While round the Masters of the Lyre
Admiring crowds their Tribute bring,
And with a grateful Voice inspire
The melting Lute, or sweep the String:
New to the Poet's heav'nly Skill,
With no melodious Rapture fir'd,

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But what informs each vulgar Quill,
What Wine provok'd, or Love inspir'd;
I sought not Fame, nor Censure fear'd,
Content to see, unfit to Praise,
And with an awful Rev'rence heard
The Triumphs of superior Lays.
At length awaken'd by thy Fame
Th'embolden'd Reptile leaves the Ground,
Th'enliven'd Muse usurps a Name,
And tinkles in Poetic Sound.
But how shall Infant Strains proceed,
Unless thy manly Art conspire
To guide the Hand, and tune the Reed,
To swell the Sound, and add the Fire.

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Thy Labours beg no foreign Praise,
No mercenary Trumpet claim,
What but thy own unrival'd Lays
Can speak the Author's wond'rous Fame?
With ardent Wings the Muse I see
High soaring with a vig'rous Flight,
High she must soar to sing of Thee,
Yet dreads she not th'Icarian Height.
Beyond the loftiest Clouds she springs,
Nor fears the fierce dissolving Flame,
While on thy Bays she rests her Wings,
And on thy Laurel chaunts thy Fame.