Soiled, but with no inglorious dust, by tomes
Beseeming well the churchman to explore,
Of venerable Fathers, mid whose lore
From proof to proof the eye enraptured roams;
Or crimsoned with the blood, that spouts its foams
Where the frocked gladiators rave and roar—
How shall I my unworthy hand fling o'er
The gentle Lyre, or crop the muse's blooms?
Ill may the fingers, by polemic thorn
Festered, essay the magic shell to sweep,
Or (all unused) the glittering wreath entwine:
Yet will I, at thy bidding, brave the scorn
Of mightier bards, and climb proud Delphi's steep,
And lay my chaplet in loved Phœbus' shrine.