To Andrew Crosse

Altho' with Earth and Heaven you deal
As equal, and without appeal,
And bring beneath your ancient roof
Records of all they do, and proof,
Mo right have you, sequester'd Crosse,
To make the Muses weep your loss.
A poet were you long before
Gems from the struggling air you tore,
And bade the far-off flashes play
About your woods, and light your way.
With languour and disease opprest,
And years, that crush the tuneful breast,
Southey, the pure of soul is mute!
Hoarse whistles Wordsworth's watery flute,

Which mourn'd witii loud indignant strains
The famisht Black in Corsic chains:

Nor longer do the girls for Moore
Jilt Horace as they did before.

He sits contented to have won
The rose-wreath from Anacreon,

And bears to see the orbs grow dim
That shone with blandest light on him.
Others there are whose future day
No slender glories shall display;

But you would think me worse than tame
To find me stringing name on name,

And I would rather call aloud
On Andrew Crosse than stem the crowd.
Now chiefly female voices rise
(And sweet are they) to cheer our skies.
Suppose you warm these chilly days
With samples from your fervid lays.

Come! courage! man! and don't pretend
That every verse cuts off a friend.

And that in simple truth you fain
Would rather not give poets pain.

The lame excuse will never do . .
Philosophers can envy too.