Whether dispensing hope, and ease To the pale victim of disease, Or in the social crowd you sit, And charm the group with sense and wit, Moore's partial ear will not disdain Attention to my artless strain.
I mean no giddy heights to climb, And vainly toil to be sublime; While every line with labour wrought, Is swell'd with tropes for want of thought: Nor shall I call the Muse to shed...
Pale moon! thy mild benignant light May glad some other captive's sight; Bright'ning the gloomy objects nigh, Thy beams a lenient thought supply: But, oh, pale moon! what ray of thine...
Oh, thou whose melody the heart obeys, Thou who can'st all its subject passions move, Whose notes to heav'n the list'ning soul can raise, Can thrill with pity, or can melt with love!...
Siddons! the Muse, for many a joy refin'd, Feelings which ever seem too swiftly fled - For those delicious tears she loves to shed, Around thy brow the wreath of praise would bind -...
While, bending at thy honour'd shrine, the Muse Pours, MONTAGU, to thee her votive strain, Thy heart will not her simple notes refuse, Or chill her timid soul with cold disdain. ...