In vain the Gods benign impart

To mortal vile the tunefull art,

to lengthen out his span;

In vain, if toss’d with ev’ry wind,

His fame’s to feeble leaves consign’d,

And mortal as the man.

 

Oft I have seen, Oh sight of pain!

Involv’d in elegiack strain

the titillating dust;

And Odes, that breath’d the lover’s fire,

To raise the taper’s blaze expire,

or circ’ling locks incrust.

 

Sagacious tho the spaniel’s nose,

Can he distinguish verse from prose,

or gnaw from right the wrong;

The infant, and the menial train,

Too oft, alas! to use prophane

apply the sweetest song.

 

Fir’d with the thought, Apollo cry’d:

Let us a Volume fair provide,

Well fenc’d with boards around;

Where, safe from Ignorance and Spight,

My sons may shine forever bright,

with bays unfading crown’d.

 

In Albion’s island, (heretofore

Renown’d for liberty and lore

and dear to pow’rs above)

An uncorrupted dome remains;

Hight Bedington by rural swains,

All in the shady grove.

 

There, blest with all the Gods can send,

Boscawen, still the Muse’s friend,

and Evelyn retreat;

There Sense, that shuns the council board,

And Wit, at both the courts abhorr’d,

have chose to fix their seat.

 

To these my Volume I resign

Hail, gen’rous pair! the sacred nine

Your labours shall repay;

Immortal fame be your reward,

Who from Oblivion snatch the Bard,

and eternize the lay.