To Robert Southey

oet, whose Soul, to Liberty devote, Has finely spoken in immortal Song, And with Her borne all English Hearts along, That can th' uplifted Mind from Evil note, I think Thee fit, though Envy be afloat, To walk, a Peer, amid that learned Throng, That, sweet in Fancy, and in Virtue strong, Have sway'd the Ear of Glory with their Note. When Time shall throw his Laurels on thy Herse, And weeping Lays be sprinkled on thy Bier, But be that long! then thy immortal Verse Shall be to Petrarch, and to Spenser dear; To whose sweet Souls Thou sweetly shalt rehearse Thy Musick, born for that Angelick Sphere!