On a BAY-LEAF, pluck'd from VIRGIL'S Tomb near Naples. 1736. By the same. BOLD was the irreligious hand, That could all reverence withstand, And sacrilegiously presume To rob the poet's sacred tomb Of so much honourable shade, As this, so small a trophy, made; Could dare to pluck from VIRGIL'S brow The honours Nature did bestow, Sweetly the gentle goddess smil'd, And listen'd to her favourite child; Whether in shepherd's cleanly weed He deftly tun'd his oaten reed, And taught the vocal woods around His Amaryllis to resound; Or taught he in a graver strain To cloath the field with waving grain; And in the marriage-folds to twine The barren elm, and cluster'd vine; To yoke the lab'ring ox, to breed To the known goal the foaming steed; And sung the manners, rights, degrees, And labours of the frugal bees; Or whether with Aeneas' name He swell'd th' extended cheek of Fame, And all his god-like labours sung, Whence Rome's extended glories sprung; The goddess smil'd, and own'd she knew Th' original from whence he drew, And grateful she spontaneous gave This living honour to his grave. Hail, thou sweet shade, whose rev'renc'd name Still foremost in the mouth of Fame, Doth preference and value give, And teach this little leaf to live, Methinks secluded from that brow, Where grateful Nature bad it grow, This beauteous green should fade away, And yield to iron-tooth'd decay: But VIRGIL'S name forbids that crime, And blunts the threat'ning scythe of Time.