Classic Poem

V.

Oh! that Apollo would my Muse inspire
With one bright Ray of his harmonious Fire:
How would she in extatick Lays
Warble out great Norfolk's Praise?
How sweetly strike the Lyre?
But 'tis in vain to try,
For Phaebus looks with Anger down,
And frowns we aim'd so high.
But tho' I must not Thanks express
For this unlook'd for Happiness,
Yet something sure is in my Pow'r,
Which Time, nor Chance can rob me of
Until my latest Hour.
Grateful Vows are surely due,
And grateful Vows shall still be made for you.
So Heav'n it self, when we no more can pay,
Accepts our Inclination to obey.