Classic Poem

Neglected Muse! of this our western clime,
How long in servile, imitative rhyme,
Wilt thou thy stifled energies impart,
And miss the path that leads to every heart?
How long repress the brave decisive flight,
Warm'd by thy native fires, led by thy native light?
Thrice happy he who first shall strike the lyre,
With homebred feeling, and with homebred fire;
He need not envy any favour'd bard,
Who Fame's bright meed, and Fortune's smiles reward;
Secure, that wheresoe'er this empire rolls,
Or east, or west, or tow'rd the firm fixed poles,
While Europe's ancient honours fade away,
And sink the glories of her better day,
When, like degenerate Greece, her former fame
Shall stand contrasted with her present shame,
And all the splendours of her bright career
Shall die away, to be relighted here,
A race of myriads will the tale rehearse,
And love the author of the happy verse.
Come then, neglected Muse! and try with me
The untrack'd path—'tis death or victory;
Let Chance or Fate decide, or critics will,
No fame I lose—I am but nothing still.