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THE MUSE.
TO WILLIAM SMITH, FELLOW OF ST. PETER'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE; AND AUTHOUR OF ENGLISH LYRICS;
Occasioned by his Poem, intitled, “The Poet.”
------ Ne forte pudori
Sit tibi Musa lyræ solers ------
Hor.
Sit tibi Musa lyræ solers ------
Hor.
Spare, spare the censure; nor upbraid,
Priest of the Muse, thy heav'nly Maid!
If vice with fatal lure beguile
The youth, who courts her placid smile;
If passions wild his bosom rend,
Nor calm content his path attend;
Thy censure let the Poet share,
But O! to wound the Muse forbear!
Priest of the Muse, thy heav'nly Maid!
If vice with fatal lure beguile
The youth, who courts her placid smile;
If passions wild his bosom rend,
Nor calm content his path attend;
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But O! to wound the Muse forbear!
'Tis not the Muse, whose touch destroys
The taste for peace and humble joys;
'Tis not the Muse, who tempts to fly,
And herd in pleasure's sensual sty;
'Tis not the Muse, who drugs the bowl,
And steels the foul self-murderer's soul,
With curses loads his parting breath,
And arms his frantic hand with death.
The taste for peace and humble joys;
'Tis not the Muse, who tempts to fly,
And herd in pleasure's sensual sty;
'Tis not the Muse, who drugs the bowl,
And steels the foul self-murderer's soul,
With curses loads his parting breath,
And arms his frantic hand with death.
'Tis that the wayward human mind
Delights to wander unconfin'd,
And spurns controul. And O! had they,
For whom thou pour'st the plaintive lay,
Withdrawn from fancy's sickly dreams,
To fairer views and holier themes,
The Muse had strown their way with flow'rs,
And ting'd with bliss their smiling hours.
Delights to wander unconfin'd,
And spurns controul. And O! had they,
For whom thou pour'st the plaintive lay,
Withdrawn from fancy's sickly dreams,
To fairer views and holier themes,
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And ting'd with bliss their smiling hours.
What poet e'er with Milton's fire
To rapture wak'd the vocal lyre?
On whom with more enlivening beam
Did virtue than on Milton stream?
Whose fancy ne'er had learn'd to rove
In Eden's calm domestic grove,
Or soar to heav'n on Angel's wings,
Had he not felt the bliss he sings.
To rapture wak'd the vocal lyre?
On whom with more enlivening beam
Did virtue than on Milton stream?
Whose fancy ne'er had learn'd to rove
In Eden's calm domestic grove,
Or soar to heav'n on Angel's wings,
Had he not felt the bliss he sings.
Where was the Muse's withering power,
When woo'd to Olney's blameless bower,
With soothing voice she lull'd the smart,
Which prey'd on Cowper's wounded heart?
Where was the Muse's fatal sway,
When Addison expiring lay,
Look'd forth with faith's unclouded eye,
And taught his weeping friends to die?
When woo'd to Olney's blameless bower,
With soothing voice she lull'd the smart,
Which prey'd on Cowper's wounded heart?
Where was the Muse's fatal sway,
When Addison expiring lay,
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And taught his weeping friends to die?
And see a spotless train appear
!
The poet of the varied year:
The graceful pair, more strong to wield
Of holy Faith the beaming shield:
And he, whose harp “the Minstrel” strung;
And he, “immortal Man who sung;”
And he, who breath'd the tender verse
Resign'd o'er “dead Maria's” herse.
The poet of the varied year:
The graceful pair, more strong to wield
Of holy Faith the beaming shield:
And he, whose harp “the Minstrel” strung;
And he, “immortal Man who sung;”
And he, who breath'd the tender verse
Resign'd o'er “dead Maria's” herse.
And Thou, who bid'st the youth “survey
The perils of the Muse's sway,”
Yet dar'st submit thy tranced soul
With fondness to her lov'd controul;
Say, pensive Bard, did e'er her pow'r
Rob thee of one delightful hour,
Or e'er with guilt pollute thy road,
Or tempt thee to forget thy God?
The perils of the Muse's sway,”
Yet dar'st submit thy tranced soul
With fondness to her lov'd controul;
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Rob thee of one delightful hour,
Or e'er with guilt pollute thy road,
Or tempt thee to forget thy God?
O gentle Queen, to whom I bow,
To whom I pour the fervent vow,
Still, still my sweet companion be,
Handmaid of love and piety!
Thou heighten'st ev'ry joy, I share;
Thou shed'st a balm on ev'ry care;
Thou point'st, where virtue shines afar,
And art thyself my leading star.
To whom I pour the fervent vow,
Still, still my sweet companion be,
Handmaid of love and piety!
Thou heighten'st ev'ry joy, I share;
Thou shed'st a balm on ev'ry care;
Thou point'st, where virtue shines afar,
And art thyself my leading star.
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