O poor preludings to some happier praise,
Thou frail decoy to merit myriad-hued,
The violets of whose virtue pave your ways,
Breathing beneficence on your sullen mood;
Go, test your worth, nor once obtrude the award
On who, unanxious, cannot pant for fame;
His only verdict, whom these lines applaud,
Shall touch my soul with sense of praise or blame,
Howe’er it be; this verse has frighted woe,
And caught the glimpses of a banished Heaven,
Haply surpassing in its quiet glow
Life’s fickle transports, nourishment and leaven;
If here is aught, its dues shall be allow’d;
I rest content, but of my office proud.