Thou Hast Inspired Me With Thy Soul, And I Who Ne'er Before Could Ken Of Poetry, Am Grown So Good Proficient, I Can Lend A Line In Commendation Of My Friend. Yet 'Tis But Of The Second Hand; If Ought There Be In This, 'Tis From Thy Fancy Brought. Good Thief, Who Dar'St, Prometheus-Like, Aspire, And Fill Thy Poems With Celestial Fire: Enliven'D By These Sparks Divine, Their Rays Add A Bright Lustre To Thy Crown Of Bays. Young Eaglet, Who Thy Nest Thus Soon Forsook, So Lofty And Divine A Course Hast Took As All Admire, Before The Down Begin To Peep, As Yet, Upon Thy Smoother Chin; And, Making Heaven Thy Aim, Hast Had The Grace To Look The Sun Of Righteousness I' The Face. What May We Hope, If Thou Go'St On Thus Fast, Scriptures At First; Enthusiasms At Last! Thou Hast Commenced, Betimes, A Saint; Go On, Mingling Diviner Streams With Helicon; That They Who View What Epigrams Here Be, May Learn To Make Like, In Just Praise Of Thee. Reader, I've Done, Nor Longer Will Withhold Thy Greedy Eyes; Looking On This Pure Gold Thou'Lt Know Adulterate Copper, Which, Like This, Will Only Serve To Be A Foil To His.