Mitford, the candid Critic of my lays,
Who oft when wild my careless Muse would sing
Smooth'd the rough note, and check'd her vagrant wing,
Accept the humble gift she grateful pays;
Though now your thoughts to bolder heights you raise,
By History's awful Goddess taught to bring
Celestial flowers from Freedom's hallow'd Spring
To crown the Chiefs of Grecia's happier days,
Yet how to harmonize the tuneful strain
Your voice has shewn Aonia's listening throng;
Nor will you, though your nicer ear retain
What sounds to purest Melody belong,
This tribute from a ruder Bard disdain,
Proud to record your friendship in his song.

More verses by Henry James Pye