See Heaven descend in Homer's aweful lines, Where all the god and all the hero shines; Behind Achilles lags devouring Death,

And the lines run the reader out of breath:
Thunders and lightnings blaze before his eyes,
Blue streams the sulphur from poetic skies!
Line after line the flood of light rolls on,
Foams to a fire, and brightens to a sun!

These are the oracles of Learning now,

Consult those books, and to those Sibyls bow;
These are the lights that call good actions forth,
Revive their value, and emblaze their worth;
By those great souls let Regulus be tried,
And the brave Decii who for freedom died!

And is there not with whom you may advise, A friend to relish and to criticise?

One who has prov'd how hard it is to please,
Not first to blame, nor yet the last to praise ;
With whose good sense an author might be free,
And whose good nature ne'er was flattery:
When such the character, and such that shines,
The name of Lawson need not end those lines:
Such late was Parnell-oh! too slightly mourn'd,
With every Grace, with every Muse adorn'd!
By Swift belov'd, by Pope lamented most,
Lost to the world—to wit and friendship lost—
Yet shall he live, while Taste is kept alive,
And his lov'd Plato in his verse revive;

Yet shall he live, as long as Truth shall charm
In mystic Fable, or fair Virtue warm;
The first remember'd in our weak essays,
With honor mention'd, dignify'd with praise.

Nor let proud Albion thus her neighbours scorn, As if her sons alone were poets born;

We too may boast ourselves the sons of fame,
Nor are we foreign to that sacred name :
Juverna's genius yet shall wear the bay,
And drink as deep of Helicon as they ;
In spite of all our hopeful foes abroad,
Prevail at last, and soar into a God;
The Dunciad comes, sure omen of their fate,
And Ireland yet may be the Muses' seat.

O! could I live to see my country shine,
Our sable cliffs invite the tuneful Nine";
Those barren rocks with bays immortal smile,
And Phoebus bless his once-beloved isle :
With life itself I gladly then would part,
My country's glories throbbing at my heart.

What's to be done in this august affair è
First let us banish all our foreign ware ;
Our foolish fondness for Italian lays,
And look at home for bards and better days:
Roscommon, Parnell, both, alas, are lost!
And few indeed the present times can boast :

Yet let those few be valued as they shou'd,

Here shew your taste and judgment to be good:
Judgment! that touch-stone that directs our thoughts,
That shows us all our beauties with our faults;

Sound judgment will direct us what to do,
And how to think of men and manners too;
Wit join'd with judgment gilds good sense with light,
As diamond solid, and as diamond bright!

Thus far a youthful Muse presum❜d to sing,
To growing bards, upon a venturous wing:
In cloister'd shades and academic groves,
Whose peaceful glooms a musing fancy loves;
Where learned Usher bless'd the reverend pile,
And Alma's glories in her Berkeley smile;
Where sacred Brown indulg'd the thoughtful hours,
In sage recesses, and Athenian bowers :

Where Parnell wak'd the long-forgotten strain,
And old Ierne strings her harp again :

Here pleas'd to listen to the well-known sound,
And hail our mother rising from the ground;
Shake off the dust that soil'd the silent wire,
And tune once more her venerable lyre,
While green with ivy grow her aweful walls,
And from her face the Druid's mantle falls:
Along the park, beneath the quivering trees,
I walk retir'd, and court the cooling breeze,
Where the tall elms project the brownest shade,
There oft the Muses wander through the glade;

There oft I follow beauty with surprise,

And drink sweet numbers from inspiring eyes;
With eager steps I cross the verdant stage,
And soon transplant them to my borrow'd page;
Each maid I meet I set her graces down,
Hence critics say those thoughts are not my own.

Fine is the secret, delicate the part, To praise with prudence, and address with art; Encomium chiefly is that kind of wit, Where compliments should indirectly hit; From different subjects take their sudden rise, And, least expected, cause the more surprise: "For none have been with admiration read, "But who, beside their learning, were well bred." Such suit all tastes, on every tongue remain, Forbid our blushes, and prevent our pain; Such subjects best a Boyle might understand, These call, my Lord, for an uncommon hand; To turn the finer features of the soul, To paint the passions sparkling as they roll: The power of numbers, the superior art, To wind the springs that move the beating heart; With living words to fire the blood to rage, Or pour quick fancy on the glowing page ; This be thy praise, nor thou this praise refuse, From no unworthy, nor ungrateful Muse; A Muse as yet unblemish'd, as unknown,

Who scorns all flattery, and who envies none;
Of wrongs forgetful, negligent of fame,
Who found no patron, and who lost no name;
Indifferent what the world may think her due,
Whose friends are many, though her years are few.