Yet, fhe admires the wing that fafely foars,
At diftance follows, and its track adores.
She knows what room, what force, the fwan requires,
Whofe towering head above the clouds afpires,
And knows as well, it is your lowest praife,
Such heights to reach with equal ftrength and ease.
O had your genius been to leifure born,
And not more bound to aid us, than adorn!
Albion in verfe with ancient Greece had vy'd,
And gain'd alone a fame, which, there, seven states divide.
But fuch, ev'n fuch renown, too dear had coft,
Had we the patriot in the poet loft.
A true poetic ftate we had deplor'd,
Had not your miniftry our coin restor❜d.
But still, my Lord, though your exalted name
Stands foremost in the fairest lift of Fame,
Though your ambition ends in public good
(A virtue lineal to your house and blood):
Yet think not meanly of your other praife,
Nor flight the trophies which the Muses raife.
How oft, a patriot's beft-laid schemes we find
By Party cross'd, or Faction undermin'd!
If he fucceed, he undergoes this lot,
The good receiv'd, the giver is forgot.
But honours which from verse their source derive,
Shall both furmount Detraction, and furvive:
And Poets have unqueftion'd right to claim
If not the greateft, the most lafting name.