Classic Poem

What! you, for verse, refuse
The joys your age should feel!
Flattered by you, my Muse
Before the Loves would kneel.
The Loves are children too,
Of winning voice, I trow;
But, alas! only twelve years old are you;
And I — I'm forty now!

Of laurels wherefore speak?
Watered with tears they live:
Fame doth not songsters seek,
When laurels she would give.
Spring's favorite flower's our due —
This tempts us, I'll allow:
But, alas! only twelve years old are you;
And I — I'm forty now!

Young bird! unfold thy wing,
The grove to render gay;
And songs still sweeter sing,
To charm some future day
To prompt those strains anew,
How gladly would I vow:
But, alas! only twelve years old are you;
And I — I'm forty now!

Yes, you'll no more delight
In crowns of flowers for me ;
In far more flattering plight
You then shall Genius see
Then may you kindly view
Such incense as I pour;
For fifty years old shall I be, when you
Have scarcely lived a score!