'Tis not for Muse like mine, in rude essay,
To paint the beauties of thy Classic Page;
Which ay deserve far other patronage
Than the small meed sincere she fain would pay
Of Verse, grave Eulogy, or Distich gay;
For that thou deign'st inform this sapient age,
What 'ere was whilom told by tuneful Sage,
Or harp'd in hall, or bow'r, on solemn day;
But more for that thy skill, the minstrel throng,
Forbids in cold Oblivion's arms to lie,
Dear long--lost masters of the British Song,
They shall requite thee better far than I;
And other climes, and other shades among,
Weave thee a Laureate Wreath that ne'er shall die.