An Apology written for my Son to the Reverend Mr. Sampson, who had invited some Friends to celebrate Lord Carteret's Birth-Day, at Mount-Carteret near Dublin; and desir'd my Son to write on that Occasion. With Joy your Summons we obey, And come to celebrate this Day. Yet I, alas! despair to please; For you require exalted Lays: And, let me write whate'er I will, You'll think my Verse deficient still; Altho' the Task I now decline, Asks no Assistance from the Nine; For Nature, better far than Art, Can paint the honest, grateful Heart. Heav'n knows how much I rack'd my Head, (For beaten Paths I scorn to tread) To tell the Vice-Roy something new, Who graciously distinguish'd you; Who had your Merit in his Eye, When Prelates often pass'd it by. What Blessings must the People share, Where Virtue is the Ruler's Care! Some Lines I wrote; which seem'd so fine, My Mother cry'd, "They can't be thine: (Alas! there needs but little Care In Sons, to please a Mother's Ear) "Maro might own such Lines as these, "Nor with more Elegance could praise: "This is the true poetic Fire: "But such a Subject must inspire: "What beauteous Images are here! "Constantia help'd you now, I fear: "It must be so; you are not able — Then I by Chance upon the Table The Birth of manly Virtue spy'd; So threw my useless Pen aside. And set my Verses in a Flame, Nor dar'd to touch the hallow'd Theme: For there the God his Pow'r displays, And leaves no Room for mortal Praise.