Can fhake the folid bafe of thy renown,
Or blast the verdure of thy Laurel crown.
Tho' Time, who from his many-colour'd wings,
Scatters ten thousand fhades o'er human things,
Has wrought unnumber'd changes fince thy birth,
And given new features to the face of earth;
Tho' all thy Gods who shook the starry pole,
Unqueftion'd Rulers of the Pagan foul,
Are fallen with their fanes, in ruin hurl'd,
Their worship vanish'd from th' enlighten'd world;
Still its immortal force thy Song retains,
Still rules obedient man and fires his glowing veins ;
For Nature's felf, that great and conftant power,
One and the fame thro' every changing hour,
Gave thee each fecret of her reign to pierce,
And ftampt her fignet on thy facred Verse;
That aweful fignet, whofe imperial fway
No age difputes, no regions difobey;
For at its fight the subject paffions start,
And open all the paffes of the heart.
'Twas Nature taught thy Genius to display That hoft of Characters who grace thy lay;
So richly varied and fo vaft the ftore,
Her plastic hand can hardly model more :
'Twas Nature, nobleft of poetic Guides,.
Gave thee thy flowing Verfe, whose copious tides
Gushing luxuriant from high Fancy's fource,,
By no vain art diverted in their course,
With fplendid cafe, with fimple grandeur roll,
Spread their free wealth, and fertilize the foul.
There are, whom blind and erring zeal betrays.
To wound thy Genius with ill-judging praise ;
Who rafhly deem thee of all Arts the fire,
Who draw dull fmoke from thy resplendent fire,
Pretend thy fancied Miracles to pierce,
And form quaint riddles of thy clearest Verse;
Blind to thofe brighter charms and purer, worth,
Which make thy Lays the lafting joy of earth.
For why has every age with fond acclaim.
Swell'd the loud note of thy increasing fame?
Not that cold Study may, from thee deduce
Vain codes of myftic lore and laws abftruse;
But that thy Song prefents, like folar light,
A world in action to th' enraptur'd fight;
That, with a force beyond th' enervate rules
Of tame Philofophy's pedantic Schools,
Thy living Images inftruct mankind,
Mould the juft heart, and fire th' heroic mind.
E'en SOCRATES himself, that pureft Sage,
Imbib'd his Wifdom from thy moral page;
And haply Greece, the Wonder of the Earth
For feats of martial fire and civic worth,
That glorious Land, of noblest minds the nurse,
Owes her unrivall'd race to thy infpiring Verse;
For O, what Greek, who in his youthful vein
Had felt thy foul-invigorating ftrain,
Who that had caught, amid the festive throng,
The public leffon of thy patriot Song,
Could ever ceafe to feel his bofom fwell
With zeal to dare, and paffion to excel.
In thee thy grateful country juftly prais'd
The nobleft Teacher of the tribes fhe rais'd;
Thy voice, which doubly gave her fame to last,
Form'd future Heroes, while it fung the past.
What deep regret thy fond admirers feel,
That mythologic clouds thy life conceal;
That, like a diftant God, thou'rt darkly fhewn,
Felt in thy Works, but in Thyfelf unknown!
Perchance the fhades that hide thy mortal days
From keen Affection's disappointed gaze,
And that Idolatry, fo fondly proud,
With which thy Country to thy genius bow'd,,
Might form the cause why, kindling with thy fire,
No Grecian rival ftruck thy Epic lyre ;;
Perchance, not seeing how thy fteps were train'd,
How they the fummit of Parnaffus gain'd,
On thy oppreffive Glory's flaming pride:
Young Emulation gaz'd, and gazing died..
The Mufes of the Attic Stage impart
To many a Votary their kindred art ;.
And the who bids the Theban Eagle bear
Her lyric thunder thro' the ftormy air,
How high foe'er she leads his daring flight, *
Guides his bold rivals to an equal height..
Of all the Grecian Bards in Glory's race,.
"Tis thine alone, by thy unequall'd pace,.
To reach the goal with loud applause, and hear
No step approaching thine, no rival near.
Yet may not Judgment, with fevere difdain,
Slight the young RHODIAN's variegated ftrain;
Tho' with lefs force he ftrike an humbler fhell,
Beneath his hand the notes of Paffion fwell.
His tender Genius, with alluring art,
Displays the tumult of the Virgin's heart,
When Love, like quivering rays that never rest,
Darts thro' each vein, and vibrates in her breaft.
Tho' Nature feel his Verfe, tho' fhe declare
Medea's magic is still potent there,
Yet Fancy fees the flighted Poet rove
In penfive anger thro' th' Elyfian Grove.
From Critic shades, whose fupercilious pride
His Song neglected, or his Powers decried,
He turns indignant-unoppreft by fears,
Behold, he feeks the fentence of his Peers.
See their just band his honeft claim allow,
See pleasure lighten on his laurell'd brow;
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