Classic Poem

To Mr. THOMSON. On the Countess of — — 's praising his POEMS.

Secure of glory, crown thy head with bays,
Ambition sets its bounds in Delia's praise;
What she approves eternity shall claim,
And give the favour'd muse unrival'd fame:
She well can judge, who knows with tuneful art,
In tender strains to move the coldest heart.

When thro' the flow'ry vale, and dusky groves,
Her muse retir'd, with guiltless freedom roves,
With new delight we seek the calm abodes,
Detest the town, and wander thro' the woods;
The sylvan scene, conscious of joy appears,
And charms like thy own summer ev'ning wears;
No longer the sad nightingales complain,
But learn from her's a more exalted strain:
Her tuneful numbers ev'ry care beguile,
And make the solitary prospect smile.

But when she sets the lyre to themes divine,
An angel speaks in every flowing line:
She takes from vice its undeserv'd applause,
And dares assert abandon'd virtue's cause.
Express'd in heav'nly eloquence we find
The perfect image of her beauteous mind;
Her beauteous mind, that with distinguish'd grace
Shines in her eyes, and sparkles in her face,
Gives ev'ry blandishment, and charming air,
Makes all harmonious, and completely fair.