Page:Vida's Art of Poetry.djvu/128

Father of verse! from thee our honours spring;
See! from all parts, our bards attend their king;
Beneath thy banners rang'd, thy fame increase,
And rear proud trophies from the spoils of Greece.
Low, in Elyzium's fields, her tuneful throng
Bow to thy Lawrels and adore thy song:
On thee, on thee, thy country turns her eyes;
On thee, the fame of all her bards relies:
They crowd to thee, and court thy aid divine;
(For all their honours but depend on thine,)
Taught from the womb thy numbers to rehearse,
And sip the balmy sweets of ev'ry verse.
Unrival'd bard! all ages shall decree
The first unenvy'd palm of fame to thee;
Thrice happy bard! thy boundless glory flies,
Where never mortal must attempt to rise;
Such heav'nly numbers in thy song we hear,
And more than human accents charm the ear!
To thee, his darling, Phœbus' hands impart
His soul, his genius, and immortal art.
What help or merit in these rules are shown,
The youth must owe to thee, and thee alone.

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