Classic Poem

To Clayfield, long renowned the Muses' friend,
Presuming on his goodness, this I send;
Unknown to you, Tranquillity, and Fame,
In this address perhaps I am to blame.
This rudeness let necessity excuse,
And anxious friendship for a much-loved Muse.
Twice have the circling hours unveil'd the east,
Since horror found me, and all pleasures ceased;
Since every number tended to deplore;
Since fame asserted Phillips was no more.

Say, is he mansioned in his native spheres?
Or is't a vapour that exhales in tears?
Swift as idea, rid me of my pain,
And let my dubious wretchedness be plain.
It is too true: the awful lyre is strung,
His elegy the sister Muses sung.
O may he live, and useless be the strain!
Fly, generous Clayfield, rid me of my pain.
Forgive my boldness, think the urgent cause;
And who can bind necessity with laws?
I wait, th' admirer of your noble parts,
You, friend to genius, sciences, and arts.