The Cause whose growth to crush, our Prelates wrote
In vain, almost in vain our Hero's fought.
Yet by one Stabb of your keen Satyr dies:
Before your Sacred Lines their Shatter'd Dagon lies.
In vain, almost in vain our Hero's fought.
Yet by one Stabb of your keen Satyr dies:
Before your Sacred Lines their Shatter'd Dagon lies.
Oh! If unworthy we appear to know
The Sire, to whom this Lovely Birth we owe:
(Deny'd our ready Homage to express,
And can at best but thankfull be by guess:)
This hope remains,—May David's God-like Mind,
(For him 'twas wrote) the Unknown Author find:
And, having found, show'r equal Favours down
On Wit so vast as cou'd oblige a Crown.
N. T.
The Sire, to whom this Lovely Birth we owe:
(Deny'd our ready Homage to express,
And can at best but thankfull be by guess:)
This hope remains,—May David's God-like Mind,
(For him 'twas wrote) the Unknown Author find:
And, having found, show'r equal Favours down
On Wit so vast as cou'd oblige a Crown.
N. T.
ABSA.
