Sweet Cumbrian Bard, esteem'd and honour'd long,
In youth belov'd, respected in thy age,
Thine is each title to mankind endear'd,
The social friend, the Christian, and the sage.

And may a young and inexperience'd Muse,
To thee a stranger, to the world unknown,
Who courts the partial favours of the Nine,
To charm her solitary hours alone,

Oh may she thus, with rash presumptuous pen,
Address sweet Yanwath's much admired bard,
And how will he, crown'd with Parnassian wreaths,
A nameless rhymer's uncouth lines regard,

Whose song no sprightly wit nor talents grace,
Nor hers the poet's energetic fire,
Hers only are the feelings of the heart,
And hers the artless strains which they inspire —

Say, will he not so mean a lay despise,
Nor deign this simple eulogy to hear,
Say will he not indignant turn away,
With looks averted and a frown severe?

Oh no, he will not, for his soul is mild,
If we may judge from his harmonious lays,
Perhaps he will the bold attempt forgive,
And spare his censures, though he cannot praise.

Then may she ask if silent sleeps the lyre?
Hast thou to younger hands resign'd the shell?
Hast thou forsook the Helicouian springs?
And bade the Nine a long and last farewell?

Or haply o'er the lov'd Eliza's tomb
Thy lyre unstrung in pensive sadness sleeps?
Or only breathes in melancholy sighs,
While o'er its chords the whisp'ring Zephyr sweeps?

Oh bid it from its slumbers wake once more,
And breathe again some soft melodious strains,
Oh bid it wake to charm the list'ning ear,
For all its sweetness, all its strength remains.