Samuel Rogers

Edward Thurlow, "Lines, on the beautiful and perfect Poem, An Epistle to a Friend, written by Mr. Rogers" Morning Post (12 March 1813).

When ROGERS o'er this labour bent,
Their purest lay the Muses lent,
T' illustrate the sweet argument.

Search all the ancient Poets o'er,
An ample, and immortal store,
Their choicest wit can give no more.

Before this lovely work appear'd,
By the fine critics it was fear'd,
Too much to th' Arctic Pole we near'd.

So poor in wit was all we wrote,
So void of philosophic thought,
So inharmoniously we wrought.

But this divine and matchless strain,
By other Poets hop'd in vain,
I' th' instant set us right again.

This book's a lamp, whose silver ray
Shall burn, unconscious of decay,
Till countless ages roll away.

It is a web, so finely wove,
If PALLAS the light shuttle drove,
No fairer could be made for JOVE.

Then, thus, to form APOLLO'S crown,
(Let ev'ry other bring his own,)
I lay my branch of laurel down.