Classic Poem

What strains are these, say Muse! which strike my eyes?
How smooth the dangerous soothing numbers rise?
Come all my faults, and follys to my aid,
E'er pride, and vanity my heart invade.
What Muse inspir'd? can they be female lays;
Can woman thus a woman deign to praise?
No 'tis some candid pen, some generous bard,
Who thus vouchsafes unmerited regard.
In whose bright Muse, mine by reflection shines,
And borrows lustre from his brighter lines.

B UT cease — for Rochefaucalt says we design,
More praise to gain, whene'er we praise decline:
For which I dare not contradict your pen,
Least you suppose I'd hear it o'er agen.

B LOCKHEADS may praise, 'till their vain tongue are tir'd,
We ne'er grow vain, when by vain fools admir'd:
But when harmonious lays, and sense commend,
From pride, what woman can herself defend?
That meteor praise, does oft' our sex misguide,
By nature prone to vanity and pride.

W HY shou'd you ask what power inspires my lay?
Does not my humble Muse herself betray.
Some homebred offspring of inferior line,
Who ne'er claim'd kindred with th' immortal Nine?
But if you fancy Holt 's salubrious streams,
Can kindle in the soul poetic themes;
From these she owns her feeble strains may rise,
Since oft' to these refreshing rills she flies:
But thoughtless drank, and never dreamt she quafft,
'Till you inform'd her an inspiring draught.

Y ET blushing owns, she's quite surpriz'd to find,
That obvious thought ne'er enter'd in her mind;
Since 'tis as evident as noon-day light,
What streams are drank, when Sylvia dares indite:
Since Water only does her Muse inspire;
No wonder if she wants poetic fire.

W HILE here, inclos'd in shades, I tune my voice,
And with the painted warbling race rejoice,
While in these streams I dip my humble quill,
Methinks I see you mount the sacred hill.
While every Muse does every line inspire,
And Phaebus warms them with celestial fire.