Ode to Sir Walter Blackett

Ye sacred nine descend,
Aid to my muse O lend,
Whilst I rehearse:
Bind round my head the bays,
My humble genius raise,
And teach me how to praise
BLACKETT, in verse.

Hard is the task impos’d,
Glorious the end propos’d;
Hark! it succeeds:
Heaven would surely frown,
And with contempt look down,
Should we forget to own
His noble deeds.

Hexham no more shall weep,
At Tyne’s redundant sweep,
And pregnant shore;
Blackett the path will pave,
Which scorns the threat’ning wave,
Where all with joy will have
Safe passage o’er.

See him with ev’ry age,
Soft’ning the bitter rage,
Of Poverty:
As he approaches nigh,
Ope the strong bolts do fly,
To set, with heart-felt joy,
The wretched free.

Titus the great did say,
Gods! I have lost a day:
Fatal mistake;
Blackett more great than he,
Never that day can see,
But numbers chearfully,
Sing for his sake.

May Heaven his life prolong,
To swell the Poet’s song
Till there arise,
One that’s as good as he,
Then let him wafted be,
To spend eternity,
Above the skies.