Nor let Arabia boast her thousand songs, And thousand bards illum'd by ray divine: To us celestial melody belongs, To us indulgent are the sacred Nine. Pope, Parnel, Dryden, oft have sweetly sung, Oft warm'd the heart, and drawn the melting tear; The wood-crown'd hill, and valley oft have rung, Angelic legions oft have stoop'd to hear. Behold a bard from Liffy's echoing shore, To him her choicest gifts the muse imparts, Give the deep lyre, gives fancy's richest ore, The tend'rest verse, and satire's keenest darts; Whether he sings of Twiss and Murcia's maid, Or soothes with melting airs his Clara's shade.
