Hope not unhurt the golden spoil to seize,
The Muses yield, as the Hesperides;
Who bribes the guardian, all his labour's done,
For every maid is willing to be won.
Before the lords of verse a suppliant stand,
And beg our passage through the fairy land:
Beg more--to search for sweets each blooming field,
And crop the blossoms woods and valleys yield,
To snatch the tints that beam on Fancy's bow;
And feel the fires on Genius' wings that glow;
Praise without meanness, without flattery stoop,
Soothe without fear, and without trembling, hope.


TO THE READER.


The following Poem being itself of an introductory nature, its
author supposes it can require but little preface.

It is published with a view of obtaining the opinion of the candid
and judicious reader on the merits of the writer as a poet; very
few, he apprehends, being in such cases sufficiently impartial to
decide for themselves.

It is addressed to the Authors of the Monthy Review, as to critics
of acknowledged merit; an acquaintance with whose labours has
afforded the writer of this Epistle a reason for directing it to
them in particular, and, he presumes, will yield to others a just
and sufficient plea for the preference.