Classic Poem

I grant it true, that others better tell
Of mighty Wolfe, who conquer'd as he fell,
Of Heroes born, their threat'ned Realms to save,
Whom Fame anoints, and Envy tends whose Grave;
Of crimson'd Fields, where Fate, in dire Array,
Gives to the Breathless the short-breathing Clay;
Ours, a young Train, by humbler Fountains dream,
Nor taste presumptuous the Pierian Stream;
When Rodney's Triumph comes on Eagle-Wing,
We hail the Victor, whom we fear to sing;
Nor tell we how each hostile Chief goes on,
The luckless Lee, or wary Washington;
How Spanish Bombast blusters—they were beat,
And French Politeness dulcifies—defeat.
My modest Muse forbears to speak of Kings,
Lest fainting Stanzas blast the Name she sings;
For who—the Tenant of the Beachen Shade,
Dares the big Thought in Regal Breasts pervade?
Or search his Soul, whom each too-favouring God
Gives to delight in Plunder, Pomp, and Blood?
No; let me, free from Cupid's frolic Round,
Rejoice, or more rejoice by Cupid bound;
Of laughing Girls in smiling Couplets tell,
And paint the dark-brow'd Grove, where Wood-Nymphs dwell;
Who bid invading Youths their Vengeance feel,
And pierce the votive Hearts they mean to heal.