TO THE Right HONOURABLE THE. Earl of RADNOR ON HIS MARRIAGE.

IF my faint Genius does not reach that height
It ought, your Fortune to congratulate,
Be pleas'd, my Lord, to take this for excuse,
That 'tis the Inter-regnum of a Muse.
Apollo frowns upon each drooping Son,
And Sadness crowns the Bowls of Hellicon,
The Mounting Pegasus, that late could fly,
Trap'd with gay Thought, and fancy through the Sky,
In her swift Course now the bold Soldier dares
To stop, and back, and manage for the Wars.
Strange turns of State disturb the peaceful Nine,
And with the rest of the sad Muses, mine;
Such sollid Grief does all Parnassus sway,
There scarce was Joy the Coronation day,
Pardon a Homely Genius then ill drest,
That dares approach without a Nuptial Vest
To wish you Joy, which though not pollish'd here,
Nor mirthfully, adorn'd is yet sincere;
Poets, like Plants, flourish when shin'd upon,
But wither and decay without the Sun.
Son Renown'd Ovid, when in Court preferr'd,
For lofty Verse was by all Rome rever'd;
But when disgrac'd he did to Pontus go,
His Fate was humble, and his Stile was low:
Like him undone, forgotten and distress'd,
I wander'd when your Theme my Muse possess'd;
But then, like Attoms, thought did sollid grow,
And Sparks of the old fire began to glow.
Your new-gain'd Happiness inspir'd my Pen
In spite of all resolves to write agen;
Your Virtues next inform'd my Memory,
Your Noble Nature, Love to Poetry,
That dares encourage Verse you find sublime,
Unsway'd by the Opinion of the time,
And own, like Athens once, in Wit are Charms,
And Arts should Grace a State as well as Arms.
There honour'd with a part of publick sway,
Poets were by the Senate held in pay;
But here in our Reform'd wise warlike Isle,
Their choicest Labours are not worth a Smile:
Another Herd have rush'd into our Fold,
And our new brood of Wits devour'd the old,
A decent Praise to mighty worth is due,
And only such, my Lord, I pay to you.
To the few Patrons of true Sense I fly,
And beg a Genius at their Feet may lye,
More us'd to Satyr than to Flattery:
That slavish Vice I yet ne'r understood,
Nor can we flatter Merit if we wou'd,
Since no just praise can ever be too good.
When once Great Virgil by Augustus sate
To read the Work he was to dedicate,
Though Praises even extravagant did seem
Yet Cesar did not think he flatter'd him.
My Muse, though to his height it ought to soar,
Does only greet your Joy, and wish you more:
With grateful thanks for Honours done before,
Be pleas'd to take what Tribute I can pay,
And think, my Lord, this is my only way.