Classic Poem

O! prest with Sufferings, tho' to Greatness born!
Whom more than Titles ev'n thy Wrongs adorn:
Still more thy Virtues , sweet'ning ev'ry Grace;
Still most the Muse , thou Glory of her Race!
Whose Mind, illum'd by Wisdom 's brightest Ray,
Can Wit 's extended Empire wide survey;
Knows what from Manners , what from Men to gain,
A polish'd Freedom , and a social Vein:
Knows what to Nature , what to Art belong,
The Force of Passions , and the Charms of Song :
Ah! known in vain, while partial Pow'r denies,
The Lot deprest should to its Merit rise.
Fools by Fatality Preferments snare,
As lightest Bubbles easiest mount in Air;
Bold to sollicit, in possessing sure:
Desert , like Gold, the Furnace must endure.
Can Butler here in Mem'ry want a Place?
Great Man! his Country's Honour and Disgrace.
Thee, Spencer , too, the Muse must long deplore,
Unequal'd Bard! but in thy Suff'rings more.
The gentle Sidney still with Grief we name,
His Doom disastrous, and his hapless Flame.
And tuneful Waller ev'ry Age shall mourn,
Oppress'd by Love, and Sacharissa 's Scorn.
Thou, Cowley , humble Solitude didst crave,
Thy temp'rate Wish — but found it in thy Grave.
What, wond'rous Oldham! did thy matchless Lays
Procure thy Youth, but Poverty and Praise?
Nor happier Fate the British Homer found,
" With Darkness and with Dangers compass'd round,
" And desolate " — Nor Dryden 's sacred Page
Could shield th' unfriended Sire from needy Age.
The tender Otway perish'd in his Bloom,
And Philips immaturely reach'd the Tomb:
Both nipt untimely by remorsless Fate,
And from the World requir'd ere half their Date.
Of num'rous. Woes that Heav'n promiscuous deals,
Still amplest Lot the Muses Offspring feels;
Yet the mean Great their sacred Gift admire,
And, by its Aids, to endless Fame aspire.
Ev'n mighty Ammon 's bold, resistless Son,
Amid a universal Empire won,
Sigh'd for the Poet's Songs, and powerful Breath,
To grace his Arms, and snatch his Name from Death.
Without the Bard's immortalizing Strain,
Helens and Caesars would be born in vain:
His Art redeems Perfections from the Grave,
Which Kneller could not draw, nor Sloan can save.
Lays blest like thine, inspir'd by Truth so pure,
Thro' ev'ry Change shall lasting Praise secure.
And O! whatever Lot thy Friend shall know,
Born with unfav'ring Stars, and prov'd in Woe!
My Genius with o'erwhelming Cares deprest,
Lost to the World , and to myself unblest,
Yet, cheer'd by kindlier Omens, I foresee
Far happier Hours reserv'd in Fate for thee!
The Gloom, that long thy drooping Morn o'ercast,
Shall brighten to serener Skies at last;
When thy griev'd Merit shall no longer pine,
Nor thy Life languish with Distress like mine:
Yet, whatsoe'er thy future Years betide,
Still, Friend! be Virtue thy unerring Guide.
Her blest Philosophy shall calm thy Strife,
And smooth th' uncheery Paths of thorny Life.
Mild Patience shall the Ills of Spleen prevent,
And Poverty grow easier by Content .
Thy Worth, so late a Queen 's distinguish'd Care,
Should teach thy Fortunes to contemn Despair.
Afflicted Virtue, tho' by Troubles tost,
Shall never in the Wreck of Fate be loft;
Nor will Jove 's Bolts the shelter'd Head invade,
Made sacred by the Laurel 's Guardian Shade.