Classic Poem

Tho' long my muse has silence kept:
As if a lethargy had siez'd her,
Her good intentions ne'er have slept—
And often too has conscience teiz'd her.

But what in nature cou'd possess her
To promise—promise to be witty?
The sad remembrance must distress her
And make an object of your pity,

To send a stiff congratulation!
The dullest thing that mortal can see!
That fatal check to conversation,
That vile extinguisher of fancy!

And yet—if truly I must send it,—
Then void of ev'ry flourish take it,
So dull no critics art can mend it,
And Flattery had scorn'd to make it.

O long may health and ev'ry blessing
Be thine and dear E LIZA'S lot!
And while new friends thou art caressing
—Ne'er let the old ones be forgot!

That heartfelt joy be long thy portion
That knows no interval of tears,
But like the oak of vast proportion
Grows firmer for a length of years.