1 While malice, Pope, denies thy page
Its own celestial fire;
While critics and while bards in rage
Admiring, won't admire:
2 While wayward pens thy worth assail,
And envious tongues decry;
These times, though many a friend bewail,
These times bewail not I.
3 But when the world's loud praise is thine,
And spleen no more shall blame;
When with thy Homer thou shalt shine
In one unclouded fame:
4 When none shall rail, and every lay
Devote a wreath to thee;
That day (for come it will) that day
Shall I lament to see.
[1] Written by one Lewis, a schoolmaster, and highly commended by
Johnson.--_See_ Boswell.