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433

UPON THE AUTHOR OF THE FOLLOWING POEM.

Once more our awful poet arms, to engage
The threat'ning hydra-faction of the age;
Once more prepares his dreadful pen to wield
And every muse attends him to the field:
By art and nature for this task designed,
Yet modestly the fight he long declined;
Forbore the torrent of his verse to pour,
Nor loosed his satire till the needful hour:
His sovereign's right, by patience half betrayed,
Waked his avenging genius to its aid.
Blest muse, whose wit with such a cause was crowned,
And blest the cause that such a champion found;
With chosen verse upon the foe he falls,
And black sedition in each quarter galls;
Yet, like a prince with subjects forced to engage,
Secure of conquest, he rebates his rage;
His fury not without distinction sheds,
Hurls mortal bolts but on devoted heads:
To less infected members gentle found,
Or spares, or else pours balm into the wound.
Such generous grace the ungrateful tribe abuse,
And trespass on the mercy of his muse;
Their wretched dogg'rel rhymers forth they bring,
To snarl and bark against the poet's king:
A crew that scandalise the nation more
Than all their treason-canting priests before!
On these he scarce vouchsafes a scornful smile,
But on their powerful patrons turns his style:
A style so keen, as even from faction draws
The vital poison, stabs to the heart their cause.
Take then, great bard, what tribute we can raise;
Accept our thanks, for you transcend our praise.
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