Samuel Whyte

Thomas Dermody, 1792; Samuel Whyte, Poems (1795) 269-70.

For thee, whose brow the vivid laurel shades,
Timid, I touch the muses' simplest shell;
For thou hast wooed the sweet Aonian maids,
And felt, inspired, the pure, poetic spell.

Oft 'mid the echoing abbey's saintly gloom,
When all the spectred aisles responsive rung,
Thy praises wont the darkness to illume,
And shed a ray of lustre while I sung.

When pensive Eve her fairy curtain drew,
With tender hand, athwart the heaving breast
Of yon still lake! and gemm'd the watery blue,
Thy honour'd name in artless song I drest.

Taught by my strain, each deep dell knew thy worth,
Each savage echo and each flowery wild;
Or when the red sun walked, majestic, forth,
Or o'er the scene with placid pleasure smil'd.

Then deign to consecrate my youthful lay,
And bid the wreath, I wove, ambrosial bloom;
So shall it mock the frown of sad decay,
And live, the noblest scutcheon of my tomb.