Classic Poem

Lord BOYLE's answer to the foregoing VERSES.

No air of wit, no beauteous grace I boast:
My charms are native innocence, at most.
Alike thy pencil, and thy numbers charm,
Glad ev'ry eye, and ev'ry bosom warm.
Mature in years, if e'er I chance to tread,
Where vice, triumphant, rears aloft her head;
Ev'n there the paths of virtue I'll pursue,
And own my fair and kind director you.