To Mrs. Haywood, the Novelist

Let Sappho's name be heard no more,
Or Dido's fate by bards be sung,
When on the billow-beaten shore
The echo of JEneas rung.

Love, the great ruler of the breast,
Proud and impatient to control,
In every novel stands confest,
Waking to nature's scenes the soul,

Haywood! thy genius was divine;
The softer passions owned thy sway;
Thy easy prose, the flowing line,
Accomplishments supreme display.

Pope, son of envy and of fame,
Penned the invidious line in vain;
To blast thy literary name,
Exceeds the power of human strain.

Ye gay, ye sensible, ye fair,
To what her genius wrote, attend;
You'll find engaging morals there
To help the lover and the friend.