To Richard Cumberland, Esq.

" Wake from its rest the comic lyre!
Put breath into its dormant fire!
Call into life Menander's vein!
And Britain's Terence crown again!

" Resign the amorous myrtle's hue!
No more the rose of youth renew!
Though evergreen thy age appears,
And smiles avert the destin'd years!

" Thee, ever sure of public fame,
Her gales invite, her transports claim;
The Muses to their Lover blest
Allow no interval of rest. "

When Britain's Genius thus complain'd,
Mars th' ill-tim'd appeal disdain'd:
The nodding crest his plume arrays,
A sword the Veteran's thigh displays.

With sanguine flame the vesture glows,
The arts of Peace their lustre close:
Thalia's playful notes are dumb,
Scar'd at the fulminating drum.

Thy Patriot Bands their Leader boast,
And thou art lov'd of all the host;
The Hero in thy form appears,
Unfetter'd by the chain of years.

'Tis past; — the Victor's wreath is ours:
With Peace return the laughing hours;
And Cumberland's dramatic page,
The mirrour of a living Stage.

With Satire — from the Muse a theft
(Whose rifled stores have nothing left)
His fertile wit's enchanting strain
Has built an Athens here again.
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