Classic Poem

Fair Nymph! of Taste and Learning born,
Whom Truth's and Candour's gifts adorn,
The Muse's friend! to thee she sings:
Accept the grateful verse she brings.
When Genius, ranging Nature o'er,
Collects his tributary store,
What Matter's tract immense supplies,
Or wide in Mind's vast region lies,
And every thought with skill combines,
And all transmits in tuneful lines,
Then rapture sparkling in thine eye,
Then rais'd thy solemn voice on high:
Thy comment still his work pursues,
The plan explains, the style reviews,
And marks its strength, and marks its ease:
And tells us why and how they please.
And when, perhaps, disdaining care,
He blends with faults his products fair:
Whate'er of such thy sight surveys,
Thy tongue in triumph ne'er displays,
But hints, as spots that dim the sun,
Or rocks that future sails should shun.
'Twas thee whom once Stagyra's grove
'Oft with her Sage allur'd to rove;
Twas thee to whom in Tadmor's bowers,
Her Statesman vow'd his vacant hours;
'Twas thee whom, Tibur's vines among,
Her Bard in careless measures sung;
Twas thou who thence to Albion's plain
Remov'd, to teach her tuneful train,
When Dryden's age, by thee inspir'd,
Condemn'd the flights his youth admir'd:
And Pope, intent on higher praise,
So polish'd all his pleasing lays:
And now, by thee, our favour'd coast
A Warton, Hurd, and Burke can boast:
And her, whose pen from Gallic rage
Defended Shakspeare's injur'd page.
Give me, bright Power! with ready ear,
Another's plea for fame to hear,
And bid my willing voice allow
The bays to Merit's modest brow:
And when the Muse her presence deigns,
And prompts my own unstudied strains,
Instruct me them, with view severe,
To' inspect, and keep from error clear;
Nor spare, though fancied e'er so fine,
One ill-plac'd thought, or useless line.