Polwhele, whose genius, in the colours clear

Polwhele, whose genius, in the colours clear Of poesy and philosophic art, Traces the sweetest impulse of the heart, Scorn, for thy Muse, the envy-sharpen’d spear, In darkness thrown, when shielded by desert She seeks the lyric fane. To virtue dear Thy verse esteeming, feeling minds impart Their vital smile, their consecrating tear. Fancy and judgment view with gracious eyes Its kindred tints, that paint the silent power Of local objects, deeds of high emprize To prompt; while their delightful spells restore The precious vanish’d days of former joys, By Love, or Fame, enwreath’d with many a flower.