Samuel Rogers

Richard Cumberland, in Retrospection, a Poem (1811) 67-68.

Now to the modest and melodious bard,
Who sung "The Pleasures Memory" bestows.
Ere I hang up my harp, let me devote
One tributary strain — But, gentle friend,
Dost thou not hear its strings how faint they sound?
I know thou dost, and pitiest the hand,
That cannot skrew them to their pitch again.
Harp, thou canst witness to my ceaseless toil,
For thou wert with me, when with trembling step
I ventur'd to approach the hallow'd mount,
Where my Redeemer died: nor morning dawn,
Nor silent night were hours of rest to me,
Whilst the Muse urg'd me to attempt the heighth
Of argument so solemn so sublime.
Still, O my friend, believe my verse sincere,
Which tells thee in my "Memory" thou shalt live
As long as that sweet "pleasure" shall endure,
Which thy propitious fancy hath adorn'd
With every charm that poem can display.