Classic Poem

When first, like a child building houses with cards,
I mimick'd the labours of loftier bards;
Though the fabries I built felt each breath that came near,
Thy smiles taught me hope, and thy praise banish'd fear.

Thou didst not reprove with an Aristarch's pride;
Or unfeelingly chill, or uncandidly chide;
It was not in thy nature with scorn to regard
The fresh-breathing hopes of an untutor'd bard.

Thou knew'st, whether fame crown'd his efforts or not,
That a love of the Muse might enliven his lot;
That poesy acts like a magical balm,
Which in seasons of sorrow can silently calm.

It might win him no wealth, yet its treasure would add
To the store of his mind what would make the heart glad;
Would make the heart glad with a pleasure more pure
And more lasting than all the world's wealth can procure.

Then accept of my thanks! they are justly thy due;
And forgive me for seeking once more to renew
The ties of a friendship with being begun,
By the father once own'd, and bequeath'd to the son.