The poetical works of James Thomson ...

78 TO DR. DE LA COUR.
TO DR. DE LA COUR, IN IRELAND.
ON HIS "PROSPECT OF PO]ETRY."
HAIL, gently warbling De la Cour, whose fame,
Spurning Hibernia's solitary coast,
Where small rewards attend the tuneful throng,
Pervades Britannia's well discerning isle:
In spite of all the gloomy-minded tribe
That would eclipse thy fame, still shall the Muse,
High soaring o'er the tall Parnassian mount
With spreading pinions - sing thy wondrous praise,
In strains attuned to the seraphic lyre.
Sing unappall'd, though mighty be the theme!
O! could she in thy own harmonious strain,
Where softest numbers smoothly flowing glide
In trickling cadence; where the milky maze
Devolves in silence; by the harsher sound
Of hoarser periods still unruffled, could
Her lines but like thine own Euphrates flow
Then might she sing in numbers worthy thee.
But what can language do, when fancy finds
Herself unequal to the lovely task?
Can feeble words thy vivid colours paint,
Or show the sweets which inexhaustive flow?
Hearken, ye woods, and long-resounding groves;
Listen, ye streams, soft purling through the meads;
And hymning horrid, all ye tempests, roar.
Awake, ye woodlands! sing, ye warbling larks,