When Greece, ungrateful to her Poet's fire,
Heard not the strains which grac'd his living lyre,
The sightless Bard, with keenest woe opprest,
Roam'd through her crouded towns, obscure, distrest;
But when, by pitying Heaven from pain remov'd,
His soul enjoy'd the harmony it lov'd,
Glories resplendent crown'd his deathless lays,
And rival cities claim'd the Poet's bays. —
Ah! let not Britain copy the ingrate,
And doom her S TANLEY to a Homer's fate.