Upon the Author of the following Poem

Once more our awful poet arms, t' engage
The threat'ning hydra-faction of the age;
Once more prepares his dreadful pen to wield,
And every Muse attends him to the field:
By art and nature for this task designed,
Yet modestly the fight he long declined,
Forbore the torrent of his verse to pour,
Nor loosed his satire till the needful hour.
His sovereign's right, by patience half betrayed,
Waked his avenging genius to its aid.
Blessed Muse, whose wit with such a cause was crowned,
And blessed the cause that such a champion found.
With chosen verse upon the foe he falls,
And black sedition in each quarter galls;
Yet like a prince with subjects forced t' engage,
Secure of conquest he rebates his rage;
His fury not without distinction sheds,
Hurls mortal bolts, but on devoted heads;
To less infected members gentle found,
Or spares, or else pours balm into the wound.
Such gen'rous grace th' ingrateful tribe abuse,
And trespass on the mercy of his Muse;
Their wretched doggerel rhymers forth they bring
To snarl and bark against the poet's King;
A crew that scandalize the nation more
Than all their treason-canting priests before.
On these he scarce vouchsafes a scornful smile,
But on their powerful patrons turns his style:
A style so keen, as ev'n from faction draws
The vital poison, stabs to th' heart their cause.
Take then, great bard, what tribute we can raise;
Accept our thanks, for you transcend our praise.