To John Milton "From His Honoured Friend, William Davenant"

Poet of mighty power, I fain     Would court the muse that honoured thee,     And, like Elisha's spirit, gain     A part of thy intensity;     And share the mantle which she flung     Around thee, when thy lyre was strung.     Though faction's scorn at first did shun     With coldness thy inspired song,     Though clouds of malice passed thy sun,     They could not hide it long;     Its brightness soon exhaled away     Dank night, and gained eternal day.     The critics' wrath did darkly frown     Upon thy muse's mighty lay;     But blasts that break the blossom down     Do only stir the bay;     And thine shall flourish, green and long,     With the eternity of song.     Thy genius saw, in quiet mood,     Gilt fashion's follies pass thee by,     And, like the monarch of the wood,     Towered oer it to the sky,     Where thou couldst sing of other spheres,     And feel the fame of future years.     Though bitter sneers and stinging scorns     Did throng the muse's dangerous way,     Thy powers were past such little thorns,     They gave thee no dismay;     The scoffer's insult passed thee by,     Thou smild'st and mad'st him no reply.     Envy will gnaw its heart away     To see thy genius gather root;     And as its flowers their sweets display     Scorn's malice shall be mute;     Hornets that summer warmed to fly,     Shall at the death of summer die.     Though friendly praise hath but its hour.     And little praise with thee hath been;     The bay may lose its summer flower,     But still its leaves are green;     And thine, whose buds are on the shoot,     Shall only fade to change to fruit.     Fame lives not in the breath of words,     In public praises' hue and cry;     The music of these summer birds     Is silent in a winter sky,     When thine shall live and flourish on,     Oer wrecks where crowds of fames are gone.     The ivy shuns the city wall,     When busy clamorous crowds intrude,     And climbs the desolated hall     In silent solitude;     The time-worn arch, the fallen dome,     Are roots for its eternal home.     The bard his glory neer receives     Where summer's common flowers are seen,     But winter finds it when she leaves     The laurel only green;     And time from that eternal tree,     Shall weave a wreath to honour thee;     A sunny wreath for poets meet,     From Helicon's immortal soil,     Where sacred Time with pilgrim feet     Walks forth to worship, not to spoil,     A wreath which Fame creates and bears,     And deathless genius only heirs.     Nought but thy ashes shall expire;     Thy genius, at thy obsequies,     Shall kindle up its living fire     And light the muse's skies;     Ay, it shall rise, and shine, and be     A sun in song's posterity.