Writ on a Blank Leaf of Merope; Sent to Mr. Garrick, by the Author
Into your hands, a dumb dead likeness take,
Whose form you quicken'd , and whose soul you make .
Mine was a painted fire — your piercing rays
Lent light'ning ; and effulg'd it into blaze .
Now, on a shelf, some silent nook impart
To him, you've loudly lodg'd on ev'ry heart .
Whose form you quicken'd , and whose soul you make .
Mine was a painted fire — your piercing rays
Lent light'ning ; and effulg'd it into blaze .
Now, on a shelf, some silent nook impart
To him, you've loudly lodg'd on ev'ry heart .
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