Classic Poem

I.

Echo her ravish'd Ear inclines
To thy transporting Song ,
For Thee , and for thy charming Lines ,
She wishes to be young .
Narcissus shou'd not be her Choice ,
She'd leave his Beauty for thy Voice .

II.

Of all the Muses she has known,
She votes to them the Bayes ,
Whose Pipe is sweeter than her own,
When she the Sighs conveys
Of ev'n tuneful Waller 's Heart,
And thrils 'em out with all her Art.

III.

Inrag'd she snatches, from my Tongue,
The half repeated Sound,
And greedily does it prolong
To all the Valleys round;
Grown fonder now of Tunstall 's Name,
Than any other Son of Fame.

IV.

Ah, if a Shadow jealous grows,
And envies me thy Praise,
What Feuds amongst my fairer Foes
Will humble Clio raise;
They'll wonder where this Clio shines,
Made so immortal by thy Lines.

V.

Surpris'd to find the Sun-burnt Maid,
Thy Praises renders vain,
Stretch'd underneath a lonely Shade,
So unpolite and plain;
They'll see thy fine Idea 's rise
From thy own Wit , not CLIO 's Eyes .

VI.

What sprightly Fancy does appear
In every beautious Thought,
The Lover and the Poet here
So gracefully are brought;
How dull is she that does not choose
A Lover , with so soft a Muse .

VII.

'Tis by Satyrick Poets told
The mercinary Heart,
Unless they dip the Point in Gold ,
Repels the baffl'd Dart ;
But he , who will succeed with mine ,
Must woe with Verse , instead of Coin .

VIII.

Had Phabus charm'd his flying Fair,
Oh Tunstall , with thy Art,
Her Soul had softned at his Prayer,
If made like Clio 's Heart ;
Were I transform'd into a Tree,
My list'ning Boughs wou'd dance to Thee .

IX.

If Ovid thus had tun'd his Lyre ,
His Caesar had been kind;
Thine will a gentler Fate inspire,
If Caesar 's of my Mind.
If Ovid could have sung like thee,
A Song had bought his Liberty.

X.

Repos'd upon the Muses Breast
The Happy Tunstall lies:
Thus Philomela builds her Nest
Remote from vulgar Eyes,
Till she reveals, by her sweet Voice ,
The Favourite Bough she makes her Choice .

XI.

Beyond the Reach of Power , or Chance ,
Thy Numbers will survive;
Thy Chains , thence, Merit will advance,
And keep thy Fame alive;
At worst, but half of thee can fall,
Thy Verse can never die at all.

XII.

Ah Tunstall ! if the Heavenly Quire
Does thy Assistance want,
To raise th' Angelick Chorus higher,
And thou art made a Saint,
Thy Wit a Legacy bestow,
That I may sing thy Name below.

XIII.

Thy noble Gift shall be repay'd,
With Interest , at thy Tomb;
My flowing Tears and Verse I'll shed,
To keep thy Bayes in Bloom;
Thy Muse a Loadstone then may be,
And raise my flagging SOUL to Thee .