To Dr. Oliver, Who corrected my Bath Poem. While rash, unknowing of Parnassus' Height, My Virgin Muse attempts th'unequal Flight; The Croud ill-judging, and her partial Friends Or veil her Faults, or blindly Each commends: While the just Critics silent Censure shew; Blame this dull Thought, that Diction much too low: Cautious and trembling now she fears to fly, You plume her Wings, and bid her boldly try. Yet blindly wand'ring, when she aims to rise, You clear the Mist of Error from her Eyes; You smooth her Verse, and blot th'unmeaning Line, Improve the Thought, and aid the lame Design. With Chymic Art the Chaos you divide, Extract the Spirit, bid the Phlegm subside; Correct, new range, precipitate, confine; Yours is the Skill, the mean Materials mine You, her Apollo, gave the Muse her Fire, Whene'er she pleases, 'tis when you inspire; Ev'n Pope approv'd, when you had tun'd her Lyre. The Debt of Honour bid me not conceal; I'll dare your Friendship, and the Truth reveal. No base Ingratitude shall taint my Name; I'll keep my Virtue, tho'I lose my Fame. My honest Pride disdains to steal the Bays, Or, like the Moon, to shine with borrow'd Rays. The greatest Merit that my Muse can shew, Is that she stands correct and fair by you. Not only Fame, but Health to you I owe: When my Joints trembled, and my Pulse beat low, When all my Friends had took a parting Sigh, And Tears dropt silent from a Parent's Eye; Tho' neither Youth nor Beauty was my Friend, Nor Gold nor Fame could tempt, yet you attend. While soft Compassion languish'd in your Eyes, And gently breath'd in sympathetic Sighs, Pure Goodness wing'd your Feet, inspir'd your Tongue; Soft were your Accents, but your Reas'ning strong. Heav'n bid me live, and you prescribe the Way; To you, next Heav'n, my grateful Thanks I pay. And now I breathe, and live, and sing anew; And owe my Breath, and Life, and Song to You