WHILE braided on thy front, for ever green,
Th' A THENIAN olive, and the Roman hay,
Twin'd with the blooming B RITISH rose, are seen,
Can my weak verse superior homage pay?

Can the faint glow-worm give the Solar glare
A brighter beam? the wild-flow'rs scanty store
Lend fragrance to S ABEA'S spicy air?
Or my rude plaudit make thy merit more!

As gold, on jewels, is not grace but waste;
From every idle effort I forbear,
Of tinsel praise, or ornament misplac'd;
And only claim, awhile, thy partial ear
To a young minstrel's descant, all unfit
To sway, as yet, the Heptarchy of Wit.