The poets, one and all, were wont to
choose
Some fabled, fav'rite Goddess, as their
muse.
But gratitude alone my mind inspires,
No other Muse my simple pen requires.
When erst in youth's gay prime and
uncontrolled
O Thetford! round thy flow'ry fields
I've strolled,
From Tutt-Hill's eminence and Croxton's
height,
Have view'd thine ancient ruins with
delight,
Thy sloping hills and wooded vallies
gay,
Whose silv'ry Ouse meand'ring winds his
way.
Though then, each lofty mound, each
ruin'd tower,
Told but of war, and time's destructive
power;
And thou, they pristine grandeur long
had'st lost,
Nor more of Kings, or mighty chiefs
could boast;
Yet heartfelt joys beneath they roots I
found,
And peace, with all the social blessings
crown'd.
to tune his reed, and sing they healing
streams,
Then enter'd not the Bard's enraptur'd
dreams,
But now the Muse exultingly may sing,
The well attested virtues of the Spring;
Since erudition and clear truth unite
To chase all fear, and set the judgement
right. |