Amid the jingle of the rhyming throng
I mark with transport some diviner song;
Sweet to their native heaven the strains aspire,
Commanding silence to the vulgar quire;
Apollo smiles, and all the tongues of Fame
Through the poetic realm Delille proclaim.
O let a British Bard, admiring, greet
Thy glorious triumph, and thy praise repeat!
When merit claims the panegyric lay,
Envy he scorns, and joys the debt to pay.
Painter of Nature hail! to thee belong
Unrivall'd talents for descriptive song:
While others, fired with more ambitious views,
Invoke the Epic, or the Tragic Muse,
And, throned in Glory's temple, shine sublime,
Proud of their laurel-wreaths that fear not Time,
Thy Genius fondly stoops to softer themes,
The landscape's beauties—flowers, and groves, and streams,
And round his brows in modest triumph wears
A simple garden-wreath, but ever green, as theirs.
What though, some critics, in their taste severe,
Turn from thy subject a disdainful ear,
Demanding still, their duller minds to strike,
War, passion, plot, surprises—and the like?
Yet will true Taste, that ranges unconfined,
And feels the charms of every various kind,
Oft quit Voltaire, or Corneille, to peruse,
Delille! the milder beauties of thy Muse;
Oft love, with thee, through rural scenes to stray,
And sweetly study Nature in thy lay.
But, ah! what boldness does thy breast inspire?
Say, wilt thou dare to touch the Mantuan lyre?
Long has thy country wish'd that classic spoil,
Yet, of her tongue distrustful, shunn'd the toil;
O cease then!—but thy hand essays the strings,—
Amazement!—Fancy cries, 'tis Virgil sings!
The same thy numbers, so correctly free,
So full of sweetness, full of majesty!
Now, France, exult! nor view with envy more
Surrounding nations rich in Roman lore;
Delille has sung; then glory in his name,
Engraved, immortal, on the rolls of Fame.