Thespia XXXI: At least in plumes unborrow'd, I present

At least in plumes unborrow'd, I present
These Elegies of Love to Thespia's eye;
She hates with Me the florid ornament,
And gawdy Muse, whose strains her soul belie.

To Thespia only, and the Few, whose taste
Accords with Her's, the tender lays belong.
Life's real scenes, domestic, simple, chaste,
Form for the Vulgar no attractive song.

Envy might hasten to depreciate fame;
And Critics sneer with many a low-bred jest,
Join with their groveling wit, her spotless name,
Studious t' affect with pain her modest breast.

They might perhaps with base illiberal art
Each weaker number cull, (for who can build
The perfect rhime?) and from the excepted part,
Pronounce the Whole with faults unseemly fill'd.

Or hating Living Worth, some Author dead
Produce; his sainted page contrast with mine;
And think the wreathe must fade upon my head,
Because his laurels, spite of Malice, shine.

Not thus, They would aver, Tibullus wove
His gentle song to Delia's matchless praise;
Not Hammond thus, the favour'd Priest of Love,
Taught by each Grace, pour'd his mellifluous lays.

Their Muse, no doubt, entire Perfection crowns,
No little lapse, no flaw we can espy.—
Insensible are They to Envy's frowns,
They do not live t' offend Detractions' eye.

No Bard I seek to rival in my strain;
As Nature dictated, the Roman wrote;
Hammond in elegant and easy vein,
Hath sweetly copied what Tibullus thought.

As Nature dictated with sovereign will,
So rose my thoughts, so flow'd my easy lay.
The quick sensations fly from tardy skill,
Yet Elegance may move as swift as They.

For with the Sentiment, th' Expression springs,
From the same lucid chamber of the Mind.
Coarseness it's speed must check, retract it's wings,
And hovering ound, long strive to be refined.

But Thespia smiles—She all the verse inspired;
Form'd each idea, sees each feeling true.
Love is the only Judge to be desired,
Where only Love the genuine portraits drew.

Hence then away, Ye mean Invidious Bands!
And the vile Croud, which iterates your voice!
These strains, my Thespia, shall escape their hands;
Such is thy purer wish, and such my choice.

Some Friends Alone, our faithful loves shall read,
Consentient Minds, who cannot, will not blame;
From Envy, from each grosser passion freed,
Whose thoughts are hallow'd, whose esteem is Fame.