27.08.2014, 12:41
Written In The Spring 1785.
The knell of WHITEHEAD tolls!--his cares are past,
The hapless tribute of his purchas'd lays,
His servile, his Egyptian tasks of praise!--
If not sublime his strains, Fame justly plac'd
Their power above their work.--Now, with wide gaze
Of much indignant wonder, she surveys
To the life-labouring oar assiduous haste
A glowing Bard, by every Muse embrac'd.--
O, WARTON! chosen Priest of Phoebus' choir!
Shall thy rapt song be venal? hymn the THRONE,
Whether its edicts just applause inspire,
Or PATRIOT VIRTUE view them with a frown?
What needs for this the golden-stringed Lyre,
The snowy Tunic, and the Sun-bright Zone!
The knell of WHITEHEAD tolls!--his cares are past,
The hapless tribute of his purchas'd lays,
His servile, his Egyptian tasks of praise!--
If not sublime his strains, Fame justly plac'd
Their power above their work.--Now, with wide gaze
Of much indignant wonder, she surveys
To the life-labouring oar assiduous haste
A glowing Bard, by every Muse embrac'd.--
O, WARTON! chosen Priest of Phoebus' choir!
Shall thy rapt song be venal? hymn the THRONE,
Whether its edicts just applause inspire,
Or PATRIOT VIRTUE view them with a frown?
What needs for this the golden-stringed Lyre,
The snowy Tunic, and the Sun-bright Zone!