Ode to Mr. Codrington, with the Second Book of Infancy

I.
This verse, O Codrington, be thine!
For when doubt's shadowy train
With implicated twine
Held the pale Muse, who scarce presumed again
T' unfold her venturous wing,
And thro the trackless ether spring

II.
Her languid head thy accents raised,
And fleeting hope replaced,
Pointing where Truth well-pleased,
Humanity enchanting Maid, and Taste
Of soul enlighten'd, stood,
And Elegance, and public Good.

III.
Could Friendship's partial eye betray?
She saw not cold neglect
Her robe of frost display,
Nor thought the plants her smiles with verdure deck'd,
Each warmly-cherisht flower,
Would shrink beneath the wintry power.

IV.
But whether the Pierian stream
Is dried by wasting time,
Or Nature's modest beam
Ceases to charm our glare-bedazzled clime,
Or led by fond desire
I write, nor feel the genuine fire:

V.
Whate'er the cause, no plenteous dew
Fame sheds around my brow;
Yet, to th' applausive Few
Scorning the many-headed tribe, I bow,
For them I seek once more
The bleak, unprofitable shore,

VI.
There are, my Friend, dishonest arts,
To which Earth's sordid Race
Stoop their insensate hearts;
But Merit will not thus it's birth debase,
Or impiously inclined,
Renounce the God within the mind.