Humanitys bright image to
Scorn laid thee prostrate in the deepest dust;
Wit wages ceaseless war on all thats fair,-
In angel and in God it puts no trust;
The bosoms treasures it would make its prey,-
Besieges fancy,-dims een faiths pure ray.
Yet issuing like thyself from humble
Like thee a gentle shepherdess is she-
Sweet poesy affords her rights divine,
And to the stars eternal soars with thee.
Around thy brow a glory she hath thrown;
The heart twas formed thee,-ever thoult live on!
The world delights whateer
is bright to stain,
And in the dust to lay the glorious low;
Yet fear not! noble bosoms still remain,
That for the lofty, for the radiant glow
Let Momus serve to fill the booth with mirth;
A nobler mind loves forms of nobler worth.