Classic Poem

Ah! seek not, artless Muse, the steep to gain
Of Fame's proud temple, but with humble hand
Tune the rude Gothic Lyre!—At thy command
Beneath yon cliffs I'll chant the careless strain
To Teign's neglected roar, or vacant swain;
Or, as of late on Rhone's more gaudy strand,
Lead up the sprightly dance, the jocund band,
Blythe minstel of the sportive village train!
But fail not Thou to haunt my nightly dreams,
Sweet visitant! nor waking thoughts t'inspire
With numbers chaste and unpolluted themes;
Such as may please awhile the gentle mind
Who, to the charms of solitude resign'd,
Thy sacred influence owns, and heav'nly fire.