Dr. John Wolcot

A. K., "Stanzas, to Peter Pindar, Esq." The Monthly Magazine 33 (February 1812) 44.

Still strike, sweet Bard, the lyric string,
And let thy liquid numbers flow:
Oh! give thy genius ample wing,
Each varied note, shall echo sing
In cadence with thy native Doe.

When thou, sage Bard, command'st the shell,
The sons of folly shun the strain,
Then Vice retires within her cell,
Affrighted at thy pow'rful spell,
And bright ey'd Virtue smiles again.

When thou command'st the plaintive wire
The feeling breast consistent glows,
The 'waken'd passions all conspire
To raise the soul's sublimest fire,
And lure her from her self-drawn woes.

When sorrow claims the mournful song
Thy lute can breath her deepest moan;
Each woe-fraught tone with pathos strong
Can bid the breast its sighs prolong,
And move the heart obdurate grown.

When thou resumest the song of glee
Or satire keen, fair Virtue's guard,
Then sons of wealth and misery
Forget thy care to smile with thee,
My country's pride, Devonian Bard!

The venial clan, with eagle eye,
Still let thy poignant Muse explore;
For deep regret shall prompt the sigh,
The Doe shall weep her fountain dry
When thou shalt sweep the lute no more.