Classic Poem

On Bodfel Hall, the Birth-place of Mrs. H. L. Piozzi.

Y E , who with pleasure have perused,
How Death old Goodman Dobson used,
Who blind, and halt, and deaf, could yet
Hope to put off great Nature's debt,
When, every warning might assure him,
Death of his ills, alone could cure him,
To Bodfel ye the pleasure owe.

Nor ye who versed in critic lore,
O'er Johnson's Lives incessant pore,
And know how, propp'd with care, the Sage
Prolonged his course another stage,
Forget — as every page you turn,
With profit, or with rapture burn,
To Bodfel ye the pleasure owe.

And ye, who, how with fluent tongue,
As oft he spoke his friends among,
Read — that, with wit and wisdom fraught,
Some he rebuked, and some he taught,
Learn, as the tales before your eyes,
Fixed in immortal page, still rise,
To Bodfel ye the pleasure owe.

And ye, who, without stirring, roam,
And see the world, yet stay at home;
If e'er your way has chanced to be
Through the bright plains of Italy,
Led on by that Fair Guide, who here
First visited our atmosphere,
To Bodfel ye the pleasure owe.

Ye too, who through Time's circling dance
Have thrown a Retrospective glance,
And many a generation traced
In History's firm hold embraced,
Remember, while you well pleased read
How Heroes shine, how Tyrants bleed,
To Bodfel ye the pleasure owe.

To Bodfel, then, a grateful song,
Its woods and meads, and streams along,
Thy aid, I supplicate, O Muse,
Nor thou the supplicated boon refuse;
So may I haply forth to fame,
The short, but gracious tale proclaim,
To Bodfel I these pleasures owe.