Go range through every clime, where’er
The patriot muse appears
He deeds of valour antedates,
His ban an army fears.
By midnight lamp each poet soul
Is plumed for flight sublime;
Pale monarch moon and shining stars
Witness his glowing rhyme!
Incited by the muse man goes
To grapple with his wrongs;
The poet cares not who makes laws,
If he may make the songs.
Can you discover ten fruits in these lines?
No. LXXVII.—LINES ON AN OLD SAMPLER
When I can plant with seventeen trees
Twice fourteen rows, in each row three;
A friend of mine I then shall please,
Who says he’ll give them all to me.