To the Excellent Master of Music, Signior Pietro Reggio, on His Book of Songs

Tho' to advance thy fame, full well I know
How very little my dull pen can do;
Yet, with all deference, I gladly wait,
Enthrong'd amongst th' attendants on thy state:
Thus when Arion, by his friends betray'd,
Upon his understanding Dolphin play'd,
The scaly people their resentments show'd
By pleas'd levoltoes on the wond'ring flood.
Great Artist! thou deserv'st our loudest praise
From th' garland to the meanest branch of bays;
For poets can but Say, thou mak'st them Sing,
And th' embryo-words dost to perfection bring;
By us the Muse conceives, but when that's done,
Thy midwif'ry makes fit to see the Sun;
Our naked lines, drest and adorn'd by thee,
Assume a beauty, pomp, and bravery;
So awful and majestic they appear,
They need not blush to reach a Prince's ear.
Princes, tho' to poor poets seldom kind,
Their numbers turn'd to air with pleasure mind
Studied and labour'd tho' our poems be,
Alas! they die unheeded without thee,
Whose art can make our breathless labours live,
Spirit and everlasting vigour give.
Whether we write of Heroes and of Kings,
In Mighty Numbers, Mighty Things,
Or in a humble Ode express our sense
Of th' happy state of ease and innocence;
A country life where the contented swain
Hugs his dear peace, and does a crown disdain;
Thy dext'rous notes with all our thoughts comply,
Can creep on Earth, can up to Heaven fly;
In heights and cadences, so sweet, so strong,
They suit a shepherd's reed, an angel's tongue.
----------------But who can comprehend
The raptures of thy voice, and miracles of thy hand?