Classic Poem

A LAS ! poor Muse, thy songs are out of time,
Thy lot hath fallen on an iron age,
When unrelenting war the sordid wage
Against thee—counting it no venial crime
To fling down in thy cause the champion gage,
And utterly scorning him who dares to rhyme:
O, that thy thoughts had filled an earlier page,
And won the favouring ears of holier men!
Whose spirits might with thee have soar'd sublime
Far above selfish Mammon's crowded den:
Thou hadst been more at home, and happier then:
Yet be thou of good courage; there are still
Those “left sev'n thousand,” whose affections will
Yearn on thy little good, and pardon thy much ill.