Samuel Rogers

'Tis said, from much refining care,
Thy cautious Muse, too slow,
No dubious beauty deigns to spare,
But damps the kindling glow.

Yet excellence by toil we gain,
Retouching o'er and o'er,
And Taste, with Judgment, should restrain
What vivid Fancy bore.

Then heed, not, Friend, such envious spleen,
But Nature still pursue,
For where her nobler works are seen,
With gradual force they grew.

Lo! from an Acorn's tiny size,
The monarch Oak expands,
Exalts his branches to the skies,
And firm for ages stands.

But POESY, disdaining time,
With NATURE holds her sway;
With her will soar to tracks sublime,
With her alone decay.

While MEMORY thee, her votive Bard,
Shall fondly hover o'er,
With grateful zeal thy fame to guard,
'Till "HUMAN LIFE'S" no more.