Delightful author! whom the saints inspire

Delightful author! whom the saints inspire! And whisp'ring angels with their ardours fire! From youth like mine, wilt thou accept of praise? Or smile with candour on a stripling's lays? My little laurel (but a shoot at most) Has hardly more than one small wreath to boast. Such as it is—(Ah! might it worthier be!) Its scanty foilage all is due to THEE. Oh! if, amongst the honours of thy brow, This slender circlet may but humbly grow: If its faint verdure haply may find place, A foil to others: Though its own disgrace; Accept it, HERVEY, from a heart sincere, And, for the giver's sake—the tribute wear. Thy soul improving works perus'd, what tongue Can hold from praise, or check the applausive song? But ah! from whence shall gratitude obtain Language that may its glowing zeal explain? How to such wond'rous worth adapt a strain? Describ'd by thee, cold sepulchres can charm; Storms calm the soul; and freezing winter, warm. Clear'd from her gloomy shades, we view pale night Surrounded with a blaze of mental light. Lo! where she comes! all silent! pensive! slow! On her dark robe unnumber'd meteors glow! High on her head a starry crown she wears! Bright in her hand the lamp of reason bears! Smiling—behold! she points the soul to Heav'n, And bids the weeping sinner be forgiv'n! But when thy fancy shifts this solemn scene, And ruddy morning gilds the cheerful green; With sudden joy we view the prospect chang'd, And blushing sweets in beauteous order rang'd. We see the violets; smell the dewy rose, And each perfume that from the woodbine flows: A boundless perspective there greets our eyes: Rich vales descend, and verdant mountains rise. The shepherds' cottages, the rural folds: All, that thy art describes, the eye beholds! Amazing limner! whence this matchless pow'r? Thy work's a garden!—ev'ry word a flow'r! Thy lovely tints almost the bloom excel, And none but Nature's self can paint so well! Hail, holy man!—henceforth thy work shall stand (Like some fair column by a master hand, Which, whilst it props, adorns the tow'ring pile) At once to grace, and elevate our isle. Tho' simple, lofty; tho' majestick, plain; Whose bold design the rules of art restrain. In which the nicest eye sees nothing wrong: Tho' polish'd, just; and elegant, though strong.