My lyre, upon the willow hung, Nor will it c'er renew its ftrain, But, 'midst the grief my foul fuftains, To fee thy fpirits, prefs'd with chains, The god of wit to thee repairs, He makes the gloomy prison bright, The free, with envying eyes look on, If ale fuch notions can produce, What wou'd the brisk enliv'ning juice, Such ftrains from Tunstall then wou'd run, Whate'er the poets may report, 'Tis in the Marfhalfea The willing mufes keep their court, In complaifance to thee: They quit Parnassus for thy cell; And fure, I think, they've chofen well. Their horfe, without a bit or rein, Aloft he foars, then skims the plain, Oh! wou'd the fteed my verfe obey, Then incenfe fhou'd his noftrils fill, With clouds of grateful fume; His manger fhou'd of gold be made, W. Tunstall W. Tunstall to fair CLIO; who, the firft Time he bad the Honour to fee her, fung a Ballad of her own compofing, in Compliment to one be bad writ before. AH! Clio, had thy diftant lays Attack'd my weakest fide, And thou hadst only writ to raise With merry glee, then, all day long, But, to the lines which thou hadft writ, To add new force, and grace thy wit Wit only points, but lips and eye Thou fhou'dft thy dawning mufe have fent And not have spread the firmament, At once, with height of noon; To banish darknefs, it was kind; Thy arrows, from a random hand, Might chance to miss their aim; For what amazement must it bring, When kindled skies their lightnings broach, To warn us of their fierce approach, And for the storm prepare; N But flashes, unexpected, fright; But you, fair nymph, no time allow, And whilft your beauty makes us glow, But when the mufe affumes her part, The Delphick god, by female tongues, Thro' horrid looks, from untun'd lungs, But the whole god in you does meet, Had Sappho thus to Phaon writ, She had efcap'd the wave; The youth had been, by force of wit, But But Sappho met her destiny, 'Caufe Sappho cou'd not write like thee, Like thee, had Eccho tun'd her voice, Narciffus to invoke, The felf-lov'd youth had fix'd his choice, Thus both a better fate had found, But, whate'er fate to me belongs, To be recorded in thy songs, And triumph in the grave: Who falls a victim to thy eyes, Thy fragrant lines falute the sky, And, like an aged phoenix, I Embalm'd on fpices reft; Thus, whilst amidst thy flames I burn, CLIO's |