Classic Poem

 To speak of merit in impartial lays,
And without flattery a friend to praise;
For this the muse shall strike the vocal lyre,
And sing in numbers which thy works inspire;
Who feels your sorrow with a sigh sincere,
And spite of resolution drops a tear.

 Tho' clouded, like the sun, thy genius shines
Thro' fortune's mist in bright immortal lines;
Like martyrs from affliction stronger grows,
Nor drooping sinks beneath a weight of woes.

 Not so could Ovid in his exile write;
The heart-felt anguish check'd his tow'ring flight;
His theme no longer was the blooming fair,
But sung in dying notes his own despair.
When modern sing-song panegyric bards,
Whom Cibber praises, and the court rewards,
In dark oblivion shall forgotten lie,
Except preserv'd by chance beneath a pye;
With rapture shall posterity rehearse
To their admiring sons thy lasting verse.

 Since Horace flourish'd in Augustus' court
(For men of wit and taste the gay resort)
None but the British bards with ease could sing,
Or touch with equal skill the Roman string;
From their rude hands the lyre dropp'd idly down,
Because they were not lineal to the throne.

 Tho' Stephen 's muse in humble metre flows,
And warbles numbers near ally'd to prose,
Thy genius gives a lustre to his rhimes,
And such a bard may live to future times.

 Had Fortune shone with an auspicious ray,
And gilded with her beams thy natal day,
The world had lost the labours of thy brain,
And Phœbus had inspir'd thy breast in vain:
But now what glory will reward your toil,
If, when the Goddess frown, the Muses smile?
And sure that proves the most distinguish'd fame,
Which rises from your own, not father's name.