To P. A. Esq on his Poems and Translations, &c

The sacred Wreath of Bays is worn by few,
Scarce in a hundred years by one, or two,
Yet from that hope we must not banish you;
You, who so well and with so strong a wing,
Of love and the bright charms of Beauty sing:
Thy Version does th' Original refine,
Though oft 'tis rough in that, 'tis always smooth in thine.
To thee the Languages so well are known,
We may, with Justice, call 'em all thy own;
And by thy learned converse e'en presume
At Madrid, Paris, Portugal, or Rome,
Thou art as true a Native as at home.
Had'st thou at Babel been, and, but allow,
Thou'd'st understood the Tongues as well as now,
In vain had Heav'n their Structure overthrew,
Thou'd'st made 'em carry on the Work anew,
Their different Dialects had'st reconcil'd,
And made all regular when all was wild.
Ah Friend! it grieves me that at such a time,
When all that's learn'd or good, is thought a crime,
Thou should'st be doom'd to the hard fate of rhime.
So base, ill natur'd are our Criticks grown,
They will damn any thing but what's their own:
These lines of thine, which well deserve to live,
And have what praise Judicious Men can give,
Must not, though nicely written, hope to be
From their ungovern'd, Lawless Censure free;
But let not that disturb thee, though they frown,
Insult, despise thy Works, or cry 'em down,
For Resignation is the mark of Grace,
And Persecution shews the chosen Race.