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THE APOLOGIST.
Think not, tho' gaily flows the lay,
Too meanly of the tuneful art:
Song claims the right to flirt and play,
Nor less can act the moral part.
Mirth, while it lightly trips along,
The weightier Truth shall lift to light;
And hence I learn to rev'rence song,
While still its milder charms delight.
Too meanly of the tuneful art:
Song claims the right to flirt and play,
Nor less can act the moral part.
Mirth, while it lightly trips along,
The weightier Truth shall lift to light;
And hence I learn to rev'rence song,
While still its milder charms delight.
The Samian prince, that prince severe,
His people rul'd with iron hand:
Great was his power, and great their fear;
None durst resist the dread command.
Anacreon charm'd the tyrant down,
Assuag'd his wrath, and wak'd desire,
Such force have tender numbers shewn!
And hence I love the tender lyre.
His people rul'd with iron hand:
Great was his power, and great their fear;
None durst resist the dread command.
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Assuag'd his wrath, and wak'd desire,
Such force have tender numbers shewn!
And hence I love the tender lyre.
The rose, ere yet its leaves unfold,
Requires the sun's enlivening ray;
And, would you warm the heart, when cold?
Go, try the love-inspiring lay.
Ah! little aids the prose-told tale,
Dress'd in no charms, nor wing'd with fire:
But love, in verse, shall seldom fail;
And therefore will I bless the lyre.
Requires the sun's enlivening ray;
And, would you warm the heart, when cold?
Go, try the love-inspiring lay.
Ah! little aids the prose-told tale,
Dress'd in no charms, nor wing'd with fire:
But love, in verse, shall seldom fail;
And therefore will I bless the lyre.
Behold the man of dauntless brow,
Who knows no measure in his crimes!
To stoic rules he scorns to bow;
He dreads no censor of the times.
But ridicule, if it reprove,
Shall leave the long-remember'd smart;
And hence I love the shafts of song,
For they can reach the guilty heart.
Who knows no measure in his crimes!
To stoic rules he scorns to bow;
He dreads no censor of the times.
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Shall leave the long-remember'd smart;
And hence I love the shafts of song,
For they can reach the guilty heart.
When griefs and cares perplex'd my breast,
To books I ran, to seek relief:
But Plato could not yield me rest,
And Seneca brought no relief.
Anacreon, more one verse of thine,
Than seven old sages, me shall please:
Still, then, shall playful song be mine;
For song the troubled heart shall ease!
To books I ran, to seek relief:
But Plato could not yield me rest,
And Seneca brought no relief.
Anacreon, more one verse of thine,
Than seven old sages, me shall please:
Still, then, shall playful song be mine;
For song the troubled heart shall ease!
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