To Mr. John Rouse, Librarian of the University of Oxford,

An Ode on a Lost Volume of my Poems Which He Desired Me to Replace that He Might Add Them to My Other Works Deposited in the Library.     Strophe I     My two-fold Book! single in show     But double in Contents,     Neat, but not curiously adorn'd     Which in his early youth,     A poet gave, no lofty one in truth     Although an earnest wooer of the Muse     Say, while in cool Ausonian shades     Or British wilds he roam'd,     Striking by turns his native lyre,     By turns the Daunian lute     And stepp'd almost in air,     Antistrophe     Say, little book, what furtive hand     Thee from thy fellow books convey'd,     What time, at the repeated suit     Of my most learned Friend,     I sent thee forth an honour'd traveller     From our great city to the source of Thames,     Caerulean sire!     Where rise the fountains and the raptures ring,     Of the Aonian choir,     Durable as yonder spheres,     And through the endless lapse of years     Secure to be admired?     Strophe II     Now what God or Demigod     For Britain's ancient Genius mov'd     (If our afflicted land     Have expiated at length the guilty sloth     Of her degen'rate sons)     Shall terminate our impious feuds,     And discipline, with hallow'd voice, recall?     Recall the Muses too     Driv'n from their antient seats     In Albion, and well-nigh from Albion's shore,     And with keen Phoebean shafts     Piercing th'unseemly birds,     Whose talons menace us     Shall drive the harpy race from Helicon afar?     Antistrophe     But thou, my book, though thou hast stray'd,     Whether by treach'ry lost     Or indolent neglect, thy bearer's fault,     From all thy kindred books,     To some dark cell or cave forlorn,     Where thou endur'st, perhaps,     The chafing of some hard untutor'd hand,     Be comforted     For lo! again the splendid hope appears     That thou may'st yet escape     The gulphs of Lethe, and on oary wings     Mount to the everlasting courts of Jove,     Strophe III     Since Rouse desires thee, and complains     That, though by promise his,     Thou yet appear'st not in thy place     Among the literary noble stores     Giv'n to his care,     But, absent, leav'st his numbers incomplete.     He, therefore, guardian vigilant     Of that unperishing wealth,     Calls thee to the interior shrine, his charge,     Where he intends a richer treasure far     Than Ion kept (Ion, Erectheus' son     Illustrious, of the fair Creusa born)     In the resplendent temple of his God,     Tripods of gold and Delphic gifts divine.     Antistrophe     Haste, then, to the pleasant groves,     The Muses' fav'rite haunt;     Resume thy station in Apollo's dome,     Dearer to him     Than Delos, or the fork'd Parnassian hill.     Exulting go,     Since now a splendid lot is also thine,     And thou art sought by my propitious friend;     For There thou shalt be read     With authors of exalted note,     The ancient glorious Lights of Greece and Rome.     Epode     Ye, then my works, no longer vain     And worthless deem'd by me!     Whate'er this steril genius has produc'd     Expect, at last, the rage of Envy spent,     An unmolested happy home,     Gift of kind Hermes and my watchful friend,     Where never flippant tongue profane     Shall entrance find,     And whence the coarse unletter'd multitude     Shall babble far remote.     Perhaps some future distant age     Less tinged with prejudice and better taught     Shall furnish minds of pow'r     To judge more equally.     Then, malice silenced in the tomb,     Cooler heads and sounder hearts,     Thanks to Rouse, if aught of praise     I merit, shall with candour weigh the claim.