Classic Poem

I.

Accept what Thanks a grateful Muse can pay,
Whose Flight you succour, and direct her Wing,
Who, while you guide her Hand, attempts to play,
And while you tune her Voice, Essays to sing.

II.

To you alone, she owes her Claim to Praise,
Rude and unfinish'd are the Draughts she draws;
You stamp Perfection on her lifeless Lays,
And your Impression justifies Applause.

III.

So in the Mine th' unfashion'd Metal glows,
With weakly Gleam; a rough, unpolish'd Mass;
Until the Royal Stamp it's Value shews,
And by the Monarch's Image, makes it pass.

IV.

Cold and inanimate is my Essay,
You Wit and Judgment, Warmth and Life inspire:
I, like Prometheus , temper Earthly Clay,
You, like Minerva , lend Caelestial Fire.

V.

My indigested Thoughts can never shine,
'Till you add Lustre, and bright Order give,
My Verses in your Hands become Divine,
And, from your Touches, they begin to live.

VI.

As in the Womb, th' imperfect Faetus lies,
The Parts unfinish'd, and unshap'd the whole;
'Till Pow'r Almighty, Man's Defect supplies,
And Heav'n informs the Matter with a Soul.

VII.

What your good Nature to my Lines conveys,
Of Wit, or Elegance, I seem to write:
Thus the Pale Moon, who shines with borrow'd Rays,
Reflects her beamy Brother's absent Light.

VIII.

Thus let me make my thankful Fondness known,
And with your Merit swell the trembling String,
Thus make the Praise of Gratitude my own,
And Hail you with that Voice you teach to sing.

IX.

So tuneful MEMNON , while Night's Vapours fly,
Dispell'd and vanquish'd by the Breaking-Day,
Salutes the Rising Glory of the Sky,
And owes his Musick to the friendly Ray.