Since, now, Great Sir, Addresses come in shoals,
And every one Your mighty Loss Condoles:
Vouchsafe, among the rest, not to refuse
The mean Oblation of a Rustic Muse.
'Tis Coarse indeed; yet sacred Stories tell,
Goats hair from Peasants once was taken well.
'Tis Rough; and yet it is confest by all,
Unpolish'd Grief is still most Natural.
A Poets name the Author dares not boast;
The Court and City have that Style engrost.
Yet when the Subject can alone infuse,
And very Sorrow can create a Muse:
When Poetry in mighty showers comes down,
And every Plash becomes a Helicon;
What wonder if some drops of this Inspiring Rage
Light on a Levites humble Hermitage?

May You, like that Restorer of our Race,
After this Deluge, see a Worlds new Face:
May Glorious Triumphs blot out all your Woe,
And where the Cypress stands may Laurels grow:
May Tears, like Dew, precede Illustrious Days,
And passing Tolls but usher peals of Praise:
May shouting Trumpets drown the mournful Lyre,
And Victory each pensive Breast inspire;
'Till Elegies in Pæans terminate,
And all, that now Condole, Congratulate.
So be who cleft the Waves with his Almighty Wand,
And led the trembling Host upon the Sand;
Silenc'd the Cries of the despairing Throng;
First led them through the Flood, then sung the glorious Song.