David Lewis

WHILE malice, Pope, denies thy page

Its own celestial fire;

While critics, and while bards in rage,

Admiring, won’t admire:

While wayward pens thy worth assail,

And envious tongues decry;

These times, though many a friend bewail,

These times bewail not I.

But when the world’s loud praise is thine,

And spleen no more shall blame:

When with thy Homer thou shalt shine

In one unclouded fame:

When none shall rail, and every lay

Devote a wreath to thee;

That day, (for come it will,) that day

Shall I lament to see.