To Dr. Priestly, On His Going To America
Had I the key that ope's the golden doors,
That hide the Heavenly Muse from earthly gaze,
Sweet Poesy, I'd haunt thy choicest bowers,
And crown fair Science with immortal bays;
And I would bear my PRIESTLY'S name along,
In rich harmonic streams of never-ending song.
But needs the sacred Sun, supremely bright,
The less resplendent light of meaner fires?
So Genius shines with pure unborrow'd light,
So Virtue lives, when ev'n the Muse expires:
To distant lands fair Fame shall wait on thee,
And Melancholy stay, and think and weep with me.