Classic Poem

Long has my Muse, devoid of wonted fire,
Her song neglected, and unstrung her lyre;
Too long! alas, has felt the iron hand
Of dire Affliction;—but at thy command
Again she tunes her harp; again she tries,
On feeble pinion, eagerly to rise;—
Again, the Bard renews his ancient lays,
And humbly dares attempt to sing thy praise;
Praise, which tho' void of ev'ry grace of art,
Yet flows, unstudied, from a grateful heart:
For tho' no flatt'ry decks my servile line,
Yet Truth superior makes thy fame divine;
I say but that, which Modesty might hear,
Yet, unabash'd, confess these lines sincere.