The Author's Address to the Critics
Oh! do not break the Thulian lyre's rude strings; Nor clip the Pegasean poney's wings. MUCH honour'd Gentlemen,--Allow Your suppliant a word or two In self defence; Though, to the meed of learning, she Makes slight pretence. Since Scandinavia rul'd our Isles, We ne'er have woo'd the muses' smiles; Yet own their power Oft wheels away, in rapid course, The wint'ry hour. Now in the pure Castalian rill Dips the first British Thulian quill To fame addrest; In slumber lull'd, the poet's art Long lay supprest. But now, forbid it tuneful powers, That you should answer, "So might your's For all we see;" Oh! meliorate your dread awards With lenity. And think, that in our clime so chill, The spark borne from the muses' hill, Fanning requires; Then do not, with a rigid frown, Blow out its fires. In quenching this my feeble gleam, You may repress a brighter beam And loftier lay; I rest content to Helicon To point the way. If on my simple strains you smile, Some poet from our northern Isle, In future day, More skilfully may touch the lyre, And gain the bay. Tho' to our clime and soil unkind, Nature, no ****rd to the mind Of Thulian race, Oft richly doth the mental field With flowers grace. If wither'd by ungenial blight, As they unfold their leaves to light, Lo, soon they close; And on oblivion's tranquil lap Again repose.
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