The Author

OF THE FOLLOWING POEM.

Once more our awful poet arms, to engage The threatning hydra-faction of the age: Once more prepares his dreadful pen to wield, And every muse attends him to the field: By art and nature for this task designed, Yet modestly the fight he long declined; Forbore the torrent of his verse to pour, Nor loosed his satire till the needful hour: His sovereign's right, by patience half betrayed, Waked his avenging genius to its aid. Blest muse, whose wit with such a cause was crowned, And blest the cause that such a champion found; With chosen verse upon the foe he falls, And black sedition in each quarter galls; Yet, like a prince with subjects forced to engage, Secure of conquest, he rebates his rage; His fury not without distinction sheds, Hurls mortal bolts but on devoted heads: To less infected members gentle found, Or spares, or else pours balm into the wound. Such generous grace the ungrateful tribe abuse, And trespass on the mercy of his muse; Their wretched doggrell rhimers forth they bring, To snarl and bark against the poet's king: A crew, that scandalize the nation more Than all their treason-canting priests before! On these he scarce vouchsafes a scornful smile, But on their powerful patrons turns his style: A style so keen, as even from faction draws The vital poison, stabs to the heart their cause. Take then, great bard, what tribute we can raise; Accept our thanks, for you transcend our praise.