[Leo]
Take the _writer_, whose size both of body and mind,
Were much more gigantic, than common you'll find,
Whose brains were employ'd for the good of the age,
And perfect the language, you find in each page,
Whether out with his Rambler, you venture to roam,
Or stay with his Rasselas, shut up at home.
When tired of his numbers, I'd have you to name,
A _Bishop_ of Ireland, recorded by fame,
Whose writings will ever be held in esteem,
By those who make sacred religion their theme.
Next remember the _writer_, whose delicate lay,
Deserv'd from Apollo, a chaplet of Bay;
Who in Hagley's sweet groves, for his Lucy did mourn,
And wept with true sorrow long over his urn.
There is none but poor Shaw, with his numbers can vie,
Who so sweetly laments that his Emma should die.
Then last name the _Poet_, whose anguish and grief,
Seeks in sorrowful verses some little relief,
Who o'er his Narcissa, so young, and so fair,
Laments in a language, uncommon, and rare.
Place these sons of Parnassus, in proper array,
And they'll tell you a month that is cheerful and gay.