The knell of WHITEHEAD tolls!—his cares are past,
The hapless tribute of his purchased lays,
His servile, his Egyptian tasks of praise!—
If not sublime his strains, Fame justly placed
Their power above their work.—Now, with wide gaze
Of much indignant wonder, she surveys
To the life-labouring oar assiduous haste
A glowing bard, by every Muse embraced.—
O, WARTON! chosen Priest of Phœbus’ choir!
Shall thy rapt song be venal? hymn the Throne,
Whether its edicts just applause inspire,
Or Patriot Virtue view them with a frown?
What needs for this the golden-stringed lyre,
The snowy tunic, and the sun-bright zone