Bp. Thomas Percy

Thomas Dermody, "Sonnet, to the Right Hon. and Reverend the Bishop of Dromore" Poems: consisting of Essays, Lyric, Elegiac, &c. (1792) 56-57.

Beneath a giant hill, whose awful brow,
With wild flow'rs wreath'd, a holy horror flung,
Pensive, I mark'd the small stream's busy flow,
Self-sighing, to its banks, a liquid Song.

Mean while, the weary Sun, with placid eye,
Beam'd orient rapture on the shadowy plain;
And, starting, foremost, on the enamel'd sky,
Young Hesper, led his saphire-vested train.

Then, solitary, did I moan the Minstrel's fate,
When, lo! a pilgrim-form, amaz'd my sight,
His green robe faded, told an ancient date,
His glances, mildly keen, his tresses, silv'ry white.

A sculptur'd harp he bore, the warbling strings,
Rung, tremulous, to ev'ry passing gale;
And MOTION, softly furl'd her flagging wings,
Eager, the solemn accents to inhale.

"Arise, fond youth, (he cry'd,) who court the Muse,
Despondent Son of Harmony, arise!
Quick, shalt thou feel ambrosian bounty's dews,
And see, Content, approach in Grandeur's guise."

"Ah me! (I sad, return'd,) what gentle hand,
Will bless the Poet, and increase his store;
What Patron, guard him, in this languid land?"
A voice, celestial-sweet, reply'd — DROMORE!