Verses to the Rev. William Mason

Long have I seen the injured muse of GRAY,
Angry and mournful, before MASON stand,
With asking eyes, that flash’d th’ indignant ray,
A pen extending, with impatient hand.

I hear her awful voice reproach the bard,
That rude malicious hands, permitted, tear
From her fair brows, the wreath ’twas his to guard
With gratitude, and friendship’s sacred care.

That unrepell’d the brazen faulchion flies,
Whose blade is steep’d in Envy’s venom’d dews,
From that Philistine critic, who defies
The chosen armies of the heavenly muse.

Blush, Loiterer, blush, that from thine able arm
Truth’s victor pebbles were not slung ere now,
The Giant’s vaunting prowess to disarm,
And sink, deep buried in his haughty brow!

MASON, canst thou the vulture-talons spy,
Mark the dead eagle’s noble bosom gor’d,
That taught thy muse to build her aerie high,
And on whose guardian wing aloft she soar’d,--

To glory soar’d, in sun-bright fields of fame!
O! canst thou mark, and let illiberal dread
Unnerve thy arm, and quench thy spirit’s flame?
Then shall ingratitude her mildew shed,
And stain thy garlands, to remotest years,
With the disgraceful spots of cold and selfish fears.