Yet in his walks, his closet, and his bed,
All frugal cares and prudent counsels fled;
And bounteous Fancy, for his glowing mind,
Wrought various scenes, and all of glorious kind: 
Slaves of the ring and lamp! what need of you,
When Fancy’s self such magic deeds can do? 
   Though rapt in visions of no vulgar kind,
To common subjects stoop’d our poet’s mind;
And oft when wearied with more ardent flight,
He felt a spur satiric song to write;
A rival burgess his bold Muse attack’d,
And whipp’d severely for a well known fact;
For while he seem’d to all demure and shy,
Our poet gazed at what was passing by;
And e’en his father smiled when playful wit,
From his young bard, some haughty object hit. 
   From ancient times, the borough where they dwelt
Had mighty contests at elections felt;
Sir Godfrey Ball, ’tis true, had held in pay
Electors many for the trying day;
But in such golden chains to bind them all
Required too much for e’en Sir Godfrey Ball. 
A member died, and to supply his place
Two heroes enter’d for th’ important race;
Sir Godfrey’s friend and Earl Fitzdonnel’s son,
Lord Frederick Darner, both prepared to run;
And partial numbers saw with vast delight
Their good young lord oppose the proud old knight. 
   Our poet’s father, at a first request,
Gave the young lord his vote and interest;
And what he could our poet, for he stung
The foe by verse satiric, said and sung. 
Lord Frederick heard of all this youthful zeal,
And felt as lords upon a canvass feel;
He read the satire, and he saw the use
That such cool insult, and such keen abuse,
Might on the wavering minds of voting men produce;
Then too his praises were in contrast seen,
“A lord as noble as the knight was mean.” 
   “I much rejoice,” he cried, “such worth to find;
To this the world must be no longer blind: 
His glory will descend from sire to son,
The Burns of English race, the happier Chatterton.” 
Our poet’s mind now hurried and elate,
Alarm’d the anxious parent for his fate;
Who saw with sorrow, should their friend succeed,
That much discretion would the poet need. 
   Their friends succeeded, and repaid the zeal
The Poet felt, and made opposers feel,
By praise (from lords how soothing and how sweet!)
An invitation to his noble seat. 
The father ponder’d, doubtful if the brain
Of his proud boy such honour could sustain;
Pleased with the favours offer’d to a son,
But seeing dangers few so ardent shun. 
   Thus when they parted, to the youthful breast
The father’s fears were by his love impress’d: 
“There will you find, my son, the courteous ease
That must subdue the soul it means to please;
That soft attention which e’en beauty pays
To wake our passions, or provoke our praise;
There all the eye beholds will give delight,
Where every sense is flatter’d like the sight;