ODE TO APOLLO ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN [Written Sept., 1783.  Published 1795.  A MS. copy is in the      British Museum.] PATRON of all those luckless brains,      That, to the wrong side leaning, Indite much meter with much pains,      And little or no meaning, Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams      That water all the nations, Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,      In constant exhalations, Why, stooping from the noon of day,      Too covetous of drink, Apollo, hast thou stol'n away      A poet's drop of ink? Upborne into the viewless air,      It floats a vapour now, Impell'd through regions dense and rare,      By all the winds that blow. Ordain'd, perhaps, ere summer flies,      Combin'd with millions more, To form an Iris in the skies,      Though black and foul before. Illustrious drop! and happy then      Beyond the happiest lot, Of all that ever pass'd my pen,      So soon to be forgot! Phoebus, if such be thy design,      To place it in thy bow, Give wit, that what is left may shine      With equal grace below. 8 16 24

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