Classic Poem

If pens could feel like men, few men I ween
Were glad as thou — poor pen of Bramah!
To think what must be and what might have been
The tenor of their life's small drama.

How oft a pen all clear as thou has graced
The choppy fist of Scotch compiler;
The lies of Faction or Chicane has traced
With Lawyer pens or hired Reviler;

In rustic Manse in parson's ink has pin'd,
Seen nought but sermons, punch, backgammon;
With dandy clerk or bloated cit confined,
Like him been ever drudge to Mammon!

Now mark the fate I give thee lucky Steel,
Prefer'd how far to all thy brothers!
The pressure of my Jane's soft hand to feel,
Still hers to be and ne'er another's

No cold ignoble thought is thine to write,
No word from crooked purpose flowing;
But dictates of a lofty spirit pure and bright
For Good and Great with fervour glowing.

And thine it may be, if thy Mistress will,
To mark some high and hallow'd pages,
Which stamp'd with genius, shrined on Fame's steep hill,
Shall live with men thro' unborn ages.

So fair a fate, thy fears and perils past
Hast thou, if Jane her favour grant thee;
And happy I, if holding thee, she cast
One thought on him the Friend that sent thee.