The Poplar

On Turnham Green's enchanted grove
The Nine their tuneful branches love,
In Sappho's glowing strains;
Her Wit, by Sense and Taste refin'd,
The fugitives and jilts can bind
With unsuspected chains.

The Laurel , though Apollo's tree,
Is pale, the Rival's crown to see,
And courts the Poplar's grace:
The amorous and blooming Rose
Around his waist a girdle throws,
And springs to his embrace.

The Muse has bless'd the vocal tree;
And Sappho's Harp , that's tun'd for me,
The boughs with music shakes;
To Inspiration — Friendship's claim
Commends her animated flame,
And mine — the Poplar makes.
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