The Myrtle’s Leaves with those of Fame entwine,
And all the Glories of that Wreath are thine?
As Eagles can undazzl’d view the Force
Of scorching Phœbus in his Noon-day Course;
Thy Genius to the God its Luster plays,
Meets his fierce Beams, and darts him Rays for Rays!
Oh Glorious Strength! Let each succeeding Page
Still boast those Charms and luminate the Age;
So shall thy beamful Fires with Light divine
Rise to the Sphere, and there triumphant Shine.