Classic Poem

With no one talent that deserves applause;
With no one awkwardness that laughter draws;
Who thinks not, but just echoes what we say;
A clock at morn wound up to run a day;
His larum goes in one smooth simple strain;
He stops, and then we wind him up again:
Still hovering round the fair at fifty-four,
Unfit to love, unable to give o'er:
A flesh-fly, that just fiutters on the wing,
Awake to buzz, but not alive to sting;
Brisk where he cannot, backward where he can,
The teasing ghost of the departed man.