Classic Poem

The MUSES'S VINDICATION.

Discard the muse — thy sounding lyre forego,
Drive from thy bosom verse, and all its charms;
Why sharpen every nerve to suffer woe,
Give passion force, and weaken reason's arms?

He, who man's properest station can discern,
For thee an humble dwelling hath prefer'd:
Where daily care thy daily bread shall earn,
And Fame's bewitching trump be never heard.

Drive from thy thought those fascinating powers,
Who with romantic dreams enchant thy soul.
The rugged world demands thy anxious hours,
And fortune bids thee her attacks controul.

Why rural talk, or rural sports disdain,
And lonely musing nightly wander far,
Chauncing to silver Cynthia some sad strain,
Of heroes slumbering on the couch of war?

'Tis thine to waste o'er books thy midnight oil,
'Tis thine to warble forth some love-lorn tale;
More blest, more useful, is the swain, whose toil
Prepares the glebe, or reaps the ripen'd vale.

Beneath yon elm, amid those humble swains,
Mortality's last rites thy bones shall share;
No future poets shall repeat thy strains,
No strangers seek thy grave to shed a tear.

Or grant some generous friend, with active zeal,
Tears from Oblivion's grasp thy heart-taught lays,
The studious Critic's cold contempt to feel,
Uncultur'd nature must not hope for praise.

To wiser purpose then thy powers direct;
With active interest guard thy steady breast.
Do liberal thoughts command the world's respect?
Do finer feelings make their owners blest?

Thus Prudence urg'd; when, lo! the Muse appears;
The sacred cause of letter'd ease she pleads,
Sparkling intelligence her visage wears,
And thus the graceful orator proceeds: —

Just were the censure, was our aim confin'd
To robe in tissue garb some idle tale;
To break the just gradation of mankind,
And with phantastic shews thy peace assail:

But know our stations. Handmaids we appear,
In Virtue's court to robe the Queen divine.
From her the high behest of truth we hear,
And thence to man transmit the lore benign.

Thou, Julia, witness, when beside the grove,
Thy hands first bound thine hair in many a braid,
As pleas'd for thee the laurel wreath we wove,
Ere we bestow'd the gift, my sisters said:

A fit companion for thy vacant hours,
This wreath and lyre in favour we bestow.
But e'er when life calls forth thy active powers,
Thou must the muse, the wreath, and lyre, sorego.

Let not unletter'd scorn, with mean delight,
Produce thy actions to traduce thy name.
We sing the virtues we ourselves excite,
And give not indolence, but merit, fame.

From taunting fatire, from unliscens'd praise,
Do thou with noble independence soar.
Give to morality thy noblest lays,
And fix thy hopes, where time destroys no more.

Then, when the virtuous precept fires thy breast,
When the sigh rises to be prais'd, and known,
Adopt the manners, which thy judgement bless'd,
And save, from folly save — thyself alone.

So shall thy eyes with angel ken survey
Fame, Pleasure, Wealth, despoil'd of all their charms;
So shalt thou sink upon thy bed of clay,
Calm as the babe now resting on thy arms.