ABSTRACT
Long slighted Fancy, with a Mother’s Care, Wept o’er his Works, and felt the last Despair. Torn from her Head, she saw the Roses fall, By all deserted, tho’ admir’d by all. ‘And oh! she cry’d, shall Science still resign Whate’er is Nature’s, and whate’er is mine? Shall Taste and Art, but shew a cold Regard, And scornful Pride reject th’unletter’d Bard? Ye myrtled Nymphs who own my gentle Reign, Tune the sweet Lyre, and grace my airy Train! If, where ye rove, your searching Eyes have known One perfect Mind which Judgment calls its own:
There ev’ry Breast its fondest Hopes must bend, And ev’ry Muse with Tears await her Friend.’
