By frantic hands sweet ORPHEUS died, His mangled limbs were scatter'd wide! And yet his LYRE possess'd a charm That could the FOREST KING disarm; The hungry WOLF be tam'd by sound, The HUMAN BRUTES were fiercer found: But while by such the Bard was torn, His HARP to Heav'n's fair arch was borne; Where still the Constellation shines, And many a sacred note enshrines!
WOLCOT, — though not an Orpheus quite— Thy SONNETS render true delight!— Some parallel we too may trace Between thee and the Man of Thrace; For, without effort to assuage, Thou hast ESCAP'D the LION'S rage!!! And though, perhaps, in shape of men, The SAVAGES of RUFUS' DEN May seek thee, piecemeal, to devour— Their spite is bounded by an hour;— And, after all the cuffs of Fate, BRIGHT HONOURS must thy LYRE wait!
