Hail thou! to whom we mortal bards our faith submit,
Whom we acknowledge our sole text, and holy writ;
None other judge infallible we own,
But thou, who art the canon of authentic wit alone.
Thou art the unexhausted ocean, whence
Sprung first, and still do flow the eternal rills of sense.
To none but thee our art divine we owe,
From whom it had its rise, and full perfection too.
Thou art the mighty bank, that ever dost supply
Throughout the world the whole poetic company;
With thy vast stock alone they traffic for a name,
And send their glorious ventures out to all the coasts of fame.
2
Who fastened that unjust reproach on thee?
Who can the senseless tale believe?
Who can to the false legend credit give,
Or think thou wantedst sight, by whom all others see?
What land, or region, how remote soe'er,
Does not so well described in thy great draughts appear,
That each thy native country seems to be,
And each t' have been surveyed, and measured out by thee?
Whatever earth does in her pregnant bowels bear,
Or on her fruitful surface wear;
Whate'er the spacious fields of air contain,
Or far extended territories of the main;
Is by thy skilful pencil so exactly shown,
We scarce discern where thou, or nature best has drawn.
Nor is thy quick all-piercing eye
Or checked, or bounded here;
But farther does surpass, and farther does descry,
Beyond the travels of the sun, and year.
Beyond this glorious scene of starry tapestry,
Where the vast purlieus of the sky,
And boundless waste of nature lies,
Thy voyages thou makest, and bold discoveries.
