But let the letter'd, and the fair,
And, chiefly, let the Wit beware;
You, whose warm spirits never fail,
Forgive the hint which ends my tale.
Tho' Science nurs'd you in her bow'rs,
Tho' Fancy crown your brow with flowers,
Each thought, tho' bright Invention fill,
Tho' Attic bees each word distil;
Yet, if one gracious power refuse
Her gentle influence to infuse,
In vain shall listening crowds approve,
They'll praise you, but they will not love.
What is this power, you're loth to mention,
This charm, this witchcraft? 'tis ATTENTION:
Mute Angel, yes; thy looks dispense
The silence of intelligence;
Thy graceful form I well discern,
In act to listen and to learn;
'Tis Thou for talents shalt obtain
That pardon Wit wou'd hope in vain;
Thy wond'rous power, thy secret charm,
Shall Envy of her sting disarm;
Thy silent flattery sooths our spirit,
And we forgive eclipsing merit;
The sweet atonement screens the fault,
And love and praise are cheaply bought.