192
Poems on
To Mr. A. POPE, who corrected my Verses.
If e'er my humble Muse melodious sings,
'Tis when you animate and tune her Strings;
If e'er she mounts, 'tis when you prune her Wings.
You, like the Sun, your glorious Beams display,
Deal to the darkest Orb a friendly Ray,
And cloath it with the Lustre of the Day.
'Tis when you animate and tune her Strings;
If e'er she mounts, 'tis when you prune her Wings.
You, like the Sun, your glorious Beams display,
Deal to the darkest Orb a friendly Ray,
And cloath it with the Lustre of the Day.
Mean was the Piece, unelegantly wrought,
The Colours faint, irregular the Draught;
But your commanding Touch, your nicer Art,
Rais'd every Stroke, and brighten'd every Part.
The Colours faint, irregular the Draught;
But your commanding Touch, your nicer Art,
Rais'd every Stroke, and brighten'd every Part.
So