TO THE REV. MR. WILLIAM SMITH, ON HEARING HIS SERMON UPON THE DEATH OF Mr. WILLIAM THOMAS MARTIN

I Call no aid, no muses to inspire, Or teach my breast to feel a poet's fire: Your soft expressions of a grief sincere Bring from my soul a sympathising tear: Taught by your voice, my artless numbers flow, I sigh in verse, am elegant in woe, And loftier thoughts within my bosom glow; For when in all the charms of language drest A manly grief flows genuine from the breast: What generous nature can escape the wounds, Or steel itself against the pow'r of melting sounds?

Oh! could I boast to move with equal art The human soul and melt the stony heart; My long lov'd friend should thro' my numbers shine, Some virtue lost be wept in ev'ry line: For virtues he had many—'twas confest, That native sense and sweetness fill'd his breast; But cooler reason checks the bold intent, And to the task refusing her consent, This only truth permits me to disclose, That in your own you represent my woes, And sweeter than my song is your harmonious prose.