O! Next Him , in fancy, warm and wild,
Who, erst, O RLANDO'S desperate feats display'd,
Tho' deep remov'd in chill Oblivion's shade,
Thee do I hail, Imagination's Child!

Whether, with awe, thy bold romantic page
I trace, conducted by mysterious clue;
Or thrill'd to tenfold horror, shudd'ring, view
Thy well-rais'd S PECTRE stalk athwart the Stage,

Or at quaint Humour smile my fears away:
For thine, strong diction, by the Graces drest,
Expression thine, that harrows up the breast,
And o'er the servient Passions sov'reign sway:

Nor Thou, tho' placed sublime, this meed refuse
From one who vaunts himself—the Martyr of the Muse.