THOUGH we that write in rhyme (it is confess'd) Are wont to praise them most that need it least, So far from doing what we had design'd That we become impertinently kind; Though I'm conyinced of this, and right well know I can add nothing to your Book, or You: Yet am I forced th' old beaten road to go And tell my friend what wonders he has done, Where loyal labours could oblige a Crown -- A Crown asserted by the hand of heaven, By which triumphant laurels now are given; And may they never, never blasted be By any Boanerges of Democracy. Compassionate friend! whose arguments do prove The force of reason and the power of love; Taught by your generous and good-natured pen, The salvage beasts may once more turn to men, Be reconciled to the ill-treated Throne, And shun those rocks their fellows split upon: Your call to th' unconverted may do more Than Orpheus' charms did in the woods before, Convince the stubborn, and th' unwary lead By benign arts those blessed steps to tread In which our glorious Master led the way To realms of peace and everlasting day. Farewell, dear friend! and for this once excuse The last efforts of an expiring Muse. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...COUNTESS LAURA by GEORGE HENRY BOKER THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: THE CHESSBOARD by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON HIC VIR, HIC EST' by CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY REBEL MOTHER'S LULLABY by SHANE LESLIE SONNET: 42 by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY |