So Moses, when the pest on legions preyed,
Advanced his signal, and the plague was stayed.
Once more, my fainting muse, thy pinions try,
And strength's exhausted store let love supply.
What tribute, Asaph,[403] shall we render thee?
We'll crown thee with a wreath from thy own tree!
Thy laurel-grove no envy's flash can blast;[404]
The song of Asaph shall for ever last.
With wonder late posterity shall dwell
On Absalom and false Achitophel: