POLWHELE! whose genius, in the colours clear Of lyric grace and philosophic art, Traces the sweetest feelings of the heart, Scorn for thy Muse the envy-sharpen'd spear, In darkness thrown, when, shielded by desert She seeks the immortal fane. To virtue dear Thy verse esteeming, feeling minds impart Their vital smile — their consecrating tear. Fancy and judgment view with gracious eyes Its kindred tints, that paint the silent power Of local objects, deeds of high emprize To prompt; while their delightful spells restore The precious vanish'd days of former joys, By Love or glory wreath'd with many a flower.
