Delightful Author! whom the Saints inspire!
And whifp'ring Angels with their Ardors fire!
From Youth like mine, wilt thou accept of Praise ?
Or fmile with Candor on a Stripling's Lays?
My little Laurel (but a Shoot at most)
Has hardly more than one fmall Wreath to boaft.
Such as it is-(Ah! might it worthier be!)
Its fcanty Foliage all is due to THEE.
Oh! if, amongst the Honours of thy Brow,
This flender Circlet may but humbly grow:,
If its faint Verdure haply may find Place—
A Foil to others;-Tho' its own Difgrace;
Accept it, HERVEY, from a Heart fincere,
And, for the Giver's Sake,—the Tribute wear.
Thy Soul-improving Works perus'd, what
Tongue
Can hold from Praise, or check th' applaufive
Song?
But ah! from whence fhall Gratitude obtain Language that may its glowing Zeal explain? How to fuch wond'rous Worth adapt a Strain? Describ'd by Thee, cold Sepulchres can charm; Storms, calm the Soul, and freezing Winter,
Clear'd from her gloomy Shades, we view pale
Night
Surrounded with a Blaze of Mental Light.
Lo! where fhe comes! all filent! penfive! flow!
On her dark Robe unnumber'd Meteors glow!
High on her Head a starry Crown she wears!
Bright in her Hand the Lamp of Reason bears!
Smiling, behold! She points the Soul to Heav'n,
And bids the weeping Sinner be forgiv'n!
But when thy Fancy fhifts this folemn Scene, And ruddy Morning gilds the chearful Green; With fudden Joy we view the Profpect chang'd, And blushing Sweets in beautious Order rang'd, We see the Violets; fmell the dewy Rose,
And each Perfume that from the Woodbine flows:
A boundless Perspective there greets our Eyes; Rich Vales defcend, and verdant Mountains rife. The Shepherds Cottages, the rural Folds :
All, that thy Art defcribes, the Eye beholds!
Amazing Limner! whence this Matchlefs
Pow'r?
Thy Work's a Garden !-ev'ry Word, a Flow't!
Thy lovely Tints almost the Bloom excel,
And none but Nature's Self can paint fo well!
Hail, holy Man!—henceforth thy Work fhall
ftand
(Like fome fair Column by a Master-Hand,
Which, whilft it props, adorns the tow'ring Pile)
At once to grace, and elevate our Ile.
Tho' fimple, lofty; tho' majeftic, plain;
Whose bold Design the Rules of Art restrain.
In which the niceft Eye fees nothing wrong:
Tho' polish'd, juft; and elegant, tho' strong.
'N Pleafure's Lap the Mufes long have lain,
Still toils the Bard beneath fome weak Defign,
And puny Thought but halts along the Line:
Or tuneful Nothings, ftealing on the Mind,
Melt into Air, nor leave a Trace behind.
While to thy rapt'rous Profe, we feel, belong
The Strength of Wisdom, and the Voice of Song:
This lifts the Torch of facred Truth on high,
And points the Captives to their native Sky.
How falfe the Joys, which Earth or Senfe
infpires,
That clog the Soul, and damp her purer Fires! Truths, which thy folemn Scenes, my Friend, declare,
Whofe glowing Colours paint us as we are.
Yet not morofely ftern, nor idly gay,
Dull Melancholy reigns, or Trifles fway;
Ill would the Strains of Levity befit,
And fullen Gloom but fadden all thy Wit:
Truth, Judgment, Senfe, Imagination join;
And ev'ry Mufe, and ev'ry Grace, is thine.
Religion prompting the true End of Man,
Confpiring Genius executes the Plan;
Strong to convince, and elegant to charm,
Plaintive to melt, or paffionate to warm.
Rais'd by Degrees, we elevate our Aim;
And grow immortal as we catch thy Flame!
True Piety informs our languid Hearts,
And all the Vicious, and the Vain, departs.
So, when foul spreading Fogs creep flowly on,
Blot the fair Morn, and hide the golden Sun;
Ardent he pours the boundless Blaze of Day, Rides thro' the Sky, and fhines the Mift away. O, had it been th' Almighty's gracious Will, That I had fhar'd a Portion of thy Skill;
Had this poor Breaft receiv'd the heav'nly Beam, Which fpreads its Luftre, thro' thy various
That fpeaks deep Leffons from the filent Tomb,
And crowns thy Garden with fresh-spreading
Bloom:
Or, piercing thro' Creation's ample Whole,
Now fooths the Night, or gilds the flarry Pole;
Or marks how Winter calls her howling Train,
Her Snows and Storms, that defolate the Plain;
With thee the Mufe fhould trace the pleafing
Road,
That leads from Nature, up to Nature's GOD;
Humble to learn, and, as she knows the more,
Glad to obey, and happy to adore.
Northampton,
25 Aug. 1750.
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