html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }In pleasing Transport rap't, my Thoughts aspire
With humble Verse to Praise what you Admire:
Few living Poets may the Laurel claim,
Most pass thro' Death, to reach at Living Fame.
Fame, Phœnix like, still rises from a Tomb;
But bravely you this Custom have o'ercome.
You force an Homage from each Generous Heart,
Such as you always pay to just Desert.
You prais'd him Living, whom you Dead bemoan,
And now your Tears afresh his Laurel crown.
It is this Flight of yours excites my Art,
Weak as it is, to take your Muse's part,
And pay loud Thanks back from my bleeding Heart.
May you in every pleasing Grace excel,
May Bright Apollo in your Bosome dwell;
May yours excel the Matchless Sappho's Name;
May you have all her Wit, without her Shame:
Tho' she to Honour gave a fatal Wound,
Employ your Hand to raise it from the ground.
Right its wrong'd Cause with your Inticing Strain,
Its ruin'd Temples try to build again.
Scorn meaner Theams, declining low desire,
And bid your Muse maintain a Vestal Fire.
If you do this, what Glory will insue,
To all our Sex, to Poesie, and you?
Write on, and may your Numbers ever flow,
Soft as the Wishes that I make for you.