Ode X: To Thomas Edwards, Esquire: On The Late Edition Of Mr. Pope's Work
I.
Believe me, Edwards, to restrain
The licence of a railer's tongue
Is what but seldom men obtain
By sense or wit, by prose or song:
A task for more Herculean powers,
Nor suited to the sacred hours
Of leisure in the Muse's bowers.
II.
In bowers where laurel weds with palm,
The Muse, the blameless queen, resides:
Fair fame attends, and wisdom calm
Her eloquence harmonious guides:
While, shut for ever from her gate,
Oft trying, still repining, wait
Fierce envy and calumnious hate.
III.
Who then from her delightful bounds
Would step one moment forth to heed
What impotent and savage sounds
From their unhappy mouths proceed?
No: rather Spenser's lyre again
Prepare, and let thy pious strain
For Pope's dishonor'd shade complain.
IV.
Tell how displeas'd was every bard,
When lately in the Elysian grove
They of his Muse's guardian heard,
His delegate to fame above;
And what with one accord they said
Of wit in drooping age misled,
And Warburton's officious aid:
V.
How Virgil mourn'd the sordid fate
To that melodious lyre assign'd
Beneath a tutor who so late
With Midas and his rout combin'd
By spiteful clamor to confound
That very lyre's enchanting sound,
Though listening realms admir'd around:
VI.
How Horace own'd he thought the fire
Of his friend Pope's satiric line
Did farther fuel scarce require
From such a militant divine:
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poem by Mark Akenside
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