Classic Poem

To mock thy fair presentment of mankind,
Contemptuous scoffers laid thee in the dust;
To beauty wit is ever ill inclined,
And in no God nor angel puts its trust;
The dearest treasures of the heart it steals,
Makes war on fancy, and belief congeals.

But, like thyself of humble parentage,
Like thee, a pious shepherdess—no more—
Poetry can thy grievances assuage,
And bid thee to celestial regions soar.
Her halo doth thy temples glorify,
Born of the heart itself, thou canst not die.

The world is prone to blacken what is bright
And all ideal virtue to demean;
Yet tremble not, for lofty hearts delight
Still in the warmth of the celestial sheen.
Let Momus entertain the common throng,
To nobler minds more noble themes belong.