John Codrington Bampfylde

Sonnet. To Mr. Warton, on Reading His History of English Poetry

'Tis not for Muse like mine, in rude essay,
To paint the beauties of thy Classic Page;
Which ay deserve far other patronage
Than the small meed sincere she fain would pay
Of Verse, grave Eulogy, or Distich gay;
For that thou deign'st inform this sapient age,
What 'ere was whilom told by tuneful Sage,
Or harp'd in hall, or bow'r, on solemn day;
But more for that thy skill, the minstrel throng,
Forbids in cold Oblivion's arms to lie,
Dear long--lost masters of the British Song,
They shall requite thee better far than I;
And other climes, and other shades among,
Weave thee a Laureate Wreath that ne'er shall die.