Classic Poem

As half resign'd, in C LAYTON'S green retreats,
Once more I trod the Muse's sacred seats,
Pleas'd where the rose its purple bloom display'd,
And calm'd where poplars spread their awful shade;
Just as my heart had beat itself to rest,
Your lines arriv'd: the lyre I snatch'd in haste,
And emulation fir'd my panting breast.
Henceforth, I cry'd, let Glory be my aim,
For H ERTFORD smiles, whose very smiles are Fame.

The pow'r of song invok'd, my voice I raise,
And all my soul was tun'd to H ERTFORD'S praise:
Whether in verse melodiously she flows,
Or the bold image paints in nervous prose;
Whether once more the sister arts she joins,
And gives to Reuben 's colours, Titian 's lines;
Or, sweetly-studious, bends the thoughtful brow,
Or smiles indulgent o'er her yet lov'd Rowe ;
Or, in the private scene, retir'd from view,
(That scene so oft with pleasure mark'd by You )
Still as she came, my voice grew faint with fear,
So graceful She, so amiably severe.

What could I more? — Adieu ye tuneful throng!
Farewel the sounding lyre, and raptur'd song!
Presumptuous notes! whene'er my voice I raise,
If nought the Muse will dictate but her praise;
Vain is the song, too delicate her ear,
And these the very sounds she will not hear.