Well it becomes thee, Britain, to avow
JOHNSON's high claims!—yet boasting that his fires
Were of unclouded lustre, TRUTH retires
Blushing, and JUSTICE knits her solemn brow;
The eyes of GRATITUDE withdraw the glow
His moral strain inspir'd.—Their zeal requires
That thou should'st better guard the sacred Lyres,
Sources of thy bright fame, than to bestow
Perfection's wreath on him, whose ruthless hand,
Goaded by jealous rage, the laurels tore,
That JUSTICE, TRUTH, and GRATITUDE demand
Should deck those Lyres till Time shall be no more.—
A radiant course did Johnson's Glory run,
But large the spots that darken'd on its Sun.