For thee, translator of the tinsel song, To whom such glittering ornaments belong, Hibernian STRANGFORD! with thine eyes of blue, [41] And boasted locks of red or auburn hue, Whose plaintive strain each love-sick Miss admires, And o'er harmonious fustian half expires, [xxi] 300 Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's sense, Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence. Think'st thou to gain thy verse a higher place, By dressing Camoëns [42] in a suit of lace? Mend, STRANGFORD! mend thy morals and thy taste; Be warm, but pure; be amorous, but be chaste: Cease to deceive; thy pilfered harp restore, Nor teach the Lusian Bard to copy MOORE. Behold--Ye Tarts!--one moment spare the text! [xxii]-- HAYLEY'S last work, and worst--until his next; 310 Whether he spin poor couplets into plays, Or damn the dead with purgatorial praise, [43] His style in youth or age is still the same, For ever feeble and for ever tame. Triumphant first see "Temper's Triumphs" shine! At least I'm sure they triumphed over mine. Of "Music's Triumphs," all who read may swear That luckless Music never triumph'd there. [44] Moravians, rise! bestow some meet reward [45] On dull devotion--Lo! the Sabbath Bard, 320 Sepulchral GRAHAME, [46] pours his notes sublime In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme; Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke, [xxiii] And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch; And, undisturbed by conscientious qualms, Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms.