Classic Poem

If void of Art my languid Verse appears,
Forgive, O F REIND , the Bard, who sings in Tears:
Rude are the Lays, which only Grief adorns,
And dull the Muses, when Apollo mourns;
When Science trembles o'er M INERVA'S Shrine,
To see her fav'rite Priest his Charge resign.
Yet why should Grief debase his glorious Name,
Or blast the Bays his Merits justly claim?
No venal View his noble Temper sways;
He quits with Honour, what he kept with Praise.
As some wise Leader , in successful Wars,
Worn out with Age, and cover'd o'er with Scars,
Resigns the Post, he bravely long sustain'd,
Crown'd with the Palm , his former Valour gain'd:
So thou, paternal Sage , may'st now repose;
Nor seek new Laurels, to adorn thy Brows;
Review thy Toils, and see what polish'd Peers
Honour thy forming Hand, and studious Cares:
Let learned C ART'RET , elegant of Taste,
Confess the Mould, in which his Mind was cast:
Let H ERVEY'S Muse her Tutor 's Worth proclaim,
And P ELHAM'S Royal Trust declare thy Fame;
P ELHAM , in whose capacious Soul we find
The Scholar, Statesman , and the Patriot join'd.
Nor shall the tender Plants, which round thee stand,
E'er prove ungrateful to the Planter's Hand;
Water'd by Thee , their well fix'd Roots extend,
Their Branches flourish, and the Fruits ascend;
While pleasing Hope with Expectation smiles,
To reap the future Product of thy Toils.
Intent to see thy Pupils shining forth,
Whose Actions soon shall better speak thy Worth;
When in the Train of Senators they come,
Refin'd with all the Arts of Greece and Rome ;
While in each Act their prudent Counsels shew
Their Master's Loyalty, and Learning too.
Thus have thy Precepts made thy Province shine,
And ev'n M INERVA'S Athens yield to thine .