Sonnet LXVIII. On The Posthumous Fame Of Doctor Johnson.

Well it becomes thee, Britain, to avow JOHNSON's high claims!—yet boasting that his fires Were of unclouded lustre, TRUTH retires Blushing, and JUSTICE knits her solemn brow; The eyes of GRATITUDE withdraw the glow His moral strain inspir'd.—Their zeal requires That thou should'st better guard the sacred Lyres, Sources of thy bright fame, than to bestow Perfection's wreath on him, whose ruthless hand, Goaded by jealous rage, the laurels tore, That JUSTICE, TRUTH, and GRATITUDE demand Should deck those Lyres till Time shall be no more.— A radiant course did Johnson's Glory run, But large the spots that darken'd on its Sun.