O WARTON! sure th' attempt were bold, What Mortal of unhallow'd mould, Presumptuous should essay, With feeble pinion to explore That radiant tract where Gray before Pursu'd his sacred way.
Like a rich Torrent rolls along Gray's mighty energy of song; Now roves thro' myrtle bow'rs— Now fills apace the lyric strain— Hark! — now tremendous roars amain, And big with horror pours.
Pale and aghast with mild dismay, The tyrant Edward hears the lay Pour'd on his host below; Old Snowdon feels th' indignant vow, He feels, and bends his clouded brow Upon the guilty foe.
Soul of our trembling passions he! Whether to joyous minstrelsy, He waken young desire; Or with an abler flight, sublime, He brave the dark confines of time, And sweep the mystic lyre.
O Warton! 'twas a master's skill That lately rul'd the Theban quill, Too soon, alas! resign'd. Extinct in death our vital flames, Poets themselves can but their names Immortal leave behind.
For me, content with humble views, At Granta I indulge my muse In literary ease; Control each stormy wish to rest, Respect myself, and my own breast Am studious how to please.
But when loud plaudits rend the skies, Sabean odours circling rise, And grateful influence shed; When mounts to heav'n the public voice, To show'r down favours on their choice, And bless the regal head:
Thine be the honour'd task to raise The tribute of immortal praise On GEORGE'S natal Morn; Thine to futurity to give His virtues, and to bid them live To ages yet unborn.
Confounded lie the Belgic bands, Perfidious Bourbon lifts his hands For mercy on his crimes; Reviving Commerce smiles again, The British Ensign rules the main, And visits barbarous climes.
