Cowper, I thank my God, that thou art heal'd. Thine was the sorest malady of all; And I am sad to think that it should light Upon the worthy head: but thou art heal'd, And thou art yet, we trust, the destin'd man, Born to reanimate the lyre, whose chords Have slumber'd, and have idle lain so long; To th' immortal sounding of whose strings Did Milton frame the stately-paced verse; Among whose wires with lighter finger playing Our elder bard, Spencer, a gentler name, The lady Muses' dearest darling child, Enticed forth the deftest tunes yet heard In hall or bower; taking the delicate ear Of the brave Sidney, and the Maiden Queen. Thou, then, take up the mighty epic strain, Cowper, of England's bards the wisest and the best!
