Classic Poem

SIR,

I Have, before the Time prescrib'd by you,
Expos'd my weak Production to your View;
Which may, I hope, have Pardon at your Hand,
Because produc'd to Light by your Command.
Perhaps you might expect some finish'd Ode,
Or sacred Song, to sound the Praise of God ;
A glorious Thought, and laudable! But then
Think what illit'rate Poet guides the Pen:
Ill suit such Tasks with One who holds the Plough,
Such lofty Subjects with a Fate so low.

S IR , were your Eloquence and Learning mine,
And I, like you, a Fav'rite of the Nine;
I quickly would Parnassus' Summit climb,
And find a Hero worthy of my Rhyme:
Nor should my Muse the Grecian Monarchs trace,
Nor would I celebrate the Trojan Race;
Nor any of those martial Sons of Fame,
Pagans, unworthy of a Christian's Theme.
Far nobler Thoughts my grateful Voice should raise,
In lofty Strains, to great M ESSIAH'S Praise:
I'd joyfully resound his wond'rous Birth,
And paint his Godlike Virtues, whilst on Earth;
Then, with Reluctance, Horror, and Surprize,
I'd mournfully relate his Agonies;
I'd trace the heavenly Hero to the Tree,
Sing what he suffer'd there for you and me;
Next, in heroic Numbers, would I tell,
How soon he baffled Death, and vanquish'd Hell,
Subdu'd the Grave, and shew'd the glorious Way,
From Realms of Darkness to eternal Day.
Such noble Subjects should my Lays excite;
And you, my Patron, would in such delight;
Grateful to me, when you, well pleas'd, should view
The accomplish'd sacred Song inscrib'd to you.

B UT now I must omit M ESSIAH'S Praise,
Left I degrade him with unworthy Lays;
My Fate compels me silent to remain,
For Want of Learning to improve my Strain:
By which no Thought, tho' well conceiv'd, can rise
To full Perfection, but in Embryo dies:
Yet my unpolish'd Genius will produce,
And bring forth Something, tho' of little Use.

T HUS , in the Country, often have I found,
Thro' slothful Man's Neglect, a Plat of Ground,
Waste and uncultivated, void of Seeds,
Producing Nothing, but some trifling Weeds.

B UT why stand I my Fate accusing so?
The Field calls me to Labour; I must go:
The Kine low after Meat; the hungry Steed,
Neighing, complains he wants his usual Feed.
Then, Sir, adieu: Accept what you did crave,
And be propitious to your humble Slave.