Poor pitied youth!

Ah, mighty Queen! you urge me to disclose, And feel, once more, unutterable woes.

Nor would I scruple, with a due regard, To read sometimes a rude unpolished bard, Among whose labours I may find a line Which from unsightly rust I may refine, And, with a better grace, adopt it into mine.

To all, proportioned terms he must dispense, And make the sound a picture of the sense.

As when sedition fires the ignoble crowd, And the wild rabble storms and thirsts for blood; Of stones and brands a mingled tempest flies, With all the sudden arms that rage supplies: If some grave sire appears, amid the strife, In morals …

Be sure from nature never to depart; To copy nature is the task of art. The noblest poets own her sovereign sway, And ever follow where she leads the way.

Arms! arms! my friends, with speed my arms supply, 'Tis our last hour, and summons us to die; My arms!—in vain you hold me,—let me go— Give, give me back this moment to the foe. 'Tis well—we will not tamely perish all, But die revenged, …