To Mrs. Strangeways Horner "Mrs. Strangeways Horner, probably the heiress of Thomas Strangeways of Melbury Park. She lived at Mells Park near Frome, Somerset. The family became Strangeways-Fox." (Tucker [1992], 220) , with a Letter from my Son ; wherein he desires me to accept his first Prize of Learning , conferr'd on him by the University of Dublin . O thou , with ev'ry Virtue grac'd , Adorn'd with Wit , and Sense , and Taste ; Who , with a Goodness unconfin'd , Delight'st in blessing human Kind , Whose Woes so oft thy Peace destroy ; 'Tis just , thou shouldst partake their Joy : Then in my Transport deign to share ; Behold this Letter from my Heir : There see the Picture of a Mind , In Duty , as in Arts , refin'd ; Who , in full Triumph , could submit His Trophies at his Parent's Feet . So he , in Roman Story fam'd , Who from Corioli was nam'd , With Joy engag'd in glorious Toils , To glad his Mother with the Spoils : Her Son , by Roman Arms , o'ercame ; By Roman Arts , mine soars to Fame . Methinks , I see your Friendship rise , And sparkle in your lovely Eyes . Your Heir ! ( I hear you now repeat ) I long to know of your Estate . Say — Is it an Hibernian Bog , Where Phoebus seldom shines for Fog ? HORTENSIA , there he sometimes shines ; But oft'ner hides his Head , and pines , On happier Climes to look , nor see Such dismal Scenes of Poverty ; Nor see an Isle , by Nature bless'd , By ill-judg'd Policy oppress'd ; Her Trade usurp'd by foreign Lands , Whilst Albion fast ties up her Hands : Nor see her Sons in Science skill'd , And yet her Posts by Strangers fill'd . But , since of my Estate you ask , The Answer is no easy Task , Criticks , not Lawyers , are to show , Whether my Title's good , or no . Ovid has long ago defin'd , What Lands are to the Muse assign'd : 'Tis but a barren Soil , 'tis true , Not such as Heav'n bestow'd on You ; ( Yet , Miser-like , our Lands you seize , And win , but will not wear , the Bays : ) A steep , a slipp'ry , dang'rous Hill , Which we , alas ! are climbing still ; Still think there's better Land up higher , Which all would gain , but few acquire . If low or beaten Paths we trace , We're deem'd an abject , grov'ling Race : And oft , when we attempt to soar , We miss our Aim , and fall the lower : Tho' some by magic Numbers found The Art to gain the highest Ground ; Yet most of those , alas ! we know , Had Cause to wish they'd stay'd below ; Rather than be exalted there , To starve in pure poetic Air ; Whilst tasteless Wights , in Valleys fed , Despise the Wits in Want of Bread . Yet sometimes we in Story find An Instance of a noble Mind , That made Apollo's Shrine its Care , And bless'd the Tribe that worshipp'd there . High in the deathless Lists of Fame , Revere the godlike Sidney's Name : There Dorset , and Southampton , view ; And there the Poets Montagu . Eliza paid her Spencer's Toil With Acres of Hibernian Soil : And now illustrious Caroline Resolves to raise the drooping Nine ; With Pleasure saw the lab'ring Hind Studious to cultivate his Mind ; And deign'd to smile on Duck's Poems . rural Lines , Where so much native Beauty shines . HORTENSIA , I revere your Mrs. Clayton . Friend : May Blessings on her Head descend , Who made a Peasant's Merit known , And plac'd the Poor before the Throne : Thus imitates the Pow'r Divine , And proves her Soul ally'd to thine .