* * * * * * * * * * * * *
But, above all, the Poet owns thy powers—
Hope leads him on, and every fear devours;
He writes, and, unsuccessful, writes again,
Nor thinks the last laborious work in vain;
New schemes he forms, and various plots he tries
To win the laurel, and possess the Prize.
TO EMMA.
View, my fair, the fading flower,
Clad like thee in [beauty's] arms,