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VARIOUS SUBJECTS.
11
But here I ſit, and mourn a grov'ling mind,
That fain would mount, and ride upon the wind.
Not you, my friend, theſe plaintive ſtrains become,
Not you, whoſe boſom is the Muſes home;
When they from tow'ring Helicon retire,
They fan in you the bright immortal fire,
But I leſs happy, cannot raiſe the ſong,35
The fault'ring muſic dies upon my tongue.
The happier Terence[1] all the choir inſpir'd,
His ſoul repleniſh'd, and his boſom fir'd;
But ſay, ye Muſes, why this partial grace,
To one alone of Afric's ſable race;40
From age to age tranſmitting thus his name
With the firſt glory in the rolls of fame?
Thy virtues, great Mæcenas! ſhall be ſung
In praiſe of him, from whom thoſe virtues ſprung:
- ↑ He was an African by birth.
B 2
While
