Classic Poem

There's a God whom the poet in silence adores,
But molests not his throne with importunate prayer;
For he knows that the evil he sees and abhors,
There is blessing to balance, and balm to repair.
But the plan of the Deity beams in the bowl;
And the eyelid of beauty reveals his design:
Oh! the goblet in hand, I abandon my soul
To the Giver of genius, love, friendship, and wine!

At the door of my dwelling the children of want
Ever find the full welcome its roof can afford!
While the dreams of the rich pain and poverty haunt,
Peace awaits on my pillow, and joy at my board,
Let the god of the court other votaries seek —
No! the idol of sycophants never was mine;
But I worship the God of the lowly and meek,
In the Giver of genius, love, friendship, and wine!

I have seen die a captive, of courtiers bereft,
Him, the sound of whose fame through our hemisphere rings;
I have marked both his rise and his fall: he has left
The imprint of his heel on the forehead of kings.
Oh, ye monarchs of Europe! ye crawled round his throne —
Ye, who now claim our homage, then knelt at his shrine;
But I never adored him, but turned me alone
To the Giver of genius, love, friendship, and wine!

The Russians have dwelt in the home of the Frank;
In our halls from their mantles they've shaken the frost;
Of their war-boots our Louvre has echoed the clank,
As they passed, in barbarian astonishment lost.
O'er the ruins of France, take, O England! take pride!
Yet a similar downfal, proud land! may be thine;
But the poet of freedom still, still will confide,
In the Giver of genius, love, friendship, and wine!

This planet is doomed, by the priesthood's decree,
To deserved dissolution one day, O! my friends;
Lo! the hurricane gathers; the bolt is set free!
And the thunder on wings of destruction descends.
Of thy trumpet, archangel, delay not the blast;
Wake the dead in the graves where their ashes recline:
While the poet, unmoved, puts his trust to the last
In the Giver of genius, love, friendship, and wine!

But away with the night-mare of gloomy forethought!
Let the goul Superstition creep back to its den;
Oh! this fair goodly globe, filled with plenty, was wrought
By a bountiful hand; for the children of men.
Let me take the full scope of my years as they roll,
Let me bask in the sun's pleasant rays while they shine;
Then, with goblet in hand, I'll abandon my soul
To the Giver of genius, love, friendship, and wine!