Classic Poem

Bright Phœbus had left his meridian height,
And downwards was stealing serene,
The Meadows breath'd odour, and slowly the night
Was sadd'ning the midsummer scene;

When down from his Garret, where many a long day
Hard poverty held the poor sinner,
A pale, tatter'd Poet, pursu'd his lone way,
To lose thought of Care—and of dinner.

The Lark high in air warbl'd out her sweet notes,
The Cuckoo was heard from the hill;
Bach thicket re-echo'd with musical throats,
And gay glanc'd the murmuring rill.

Enrapt with the prospect, the Bard gaz'd around,
Where Flora her treasures had wasted,
Thrice smote his full breast—rais'd his eyes from the ground,
And thus great Apollo requested;

“O thou, who o'er heaven's empyrean height,
Swift whirls on the chariot of Day;
Thou Father of music, thou fountain of light,
Propitiously hear while I pray.

Let no surly clouds, I beseech thee, let none
The mild, lucid hemisphere rise in,
Till down to the verge of old Ocean thou'rt gone,
And Thetis receives thee rejoicing.

With bright'ning Ideas my fancy inspire,
To wing the Parnassian Mountain;
Ye thrice sacred Nine, your kind aid I require,
To taste of the ravishing fountain.

Breathe softer, kind Zephyrs, oh! pity my clothes
Nor rave so”—thus far flow'd his song,
For low'ring and dismal, the horizon rose,
And clouds roll'd tumultuous along.

The birds, all affrighted, shrunk mute from the spray,
Hoarse murm'rings were heard from the river;
A black, horrid gloom overspread the sad day,
And made our poor Poet to shiver.

Swift full in his face the dread flaming ball flash'd,
Down rush'd a fierce torrent of rain;
And loud o'er his head grumbling thunder-bolts crash'd,
Re-bellowing from earth back amain;

Beneath an old hedging, for shelter he crawl'd,
And clung by a shooting of birch;
Crash went the weak branch, and the wretch, while he bawl'd,
At once tumbled squash in the ditch.

Half-drown'd with the deluge, and frozen with fear,
Apollo's mad vot'ry thus sputter'd;
“Thou deaf, saucy scoundrel! why did'st thou not hear
The kind Invocation I utter'd?

And you, ye curs'd Nine! I detest your each form,
Rank cheats ye're I know, nor shall hide it;
For those who won't shield a bare Bard from the storm,
Can ne'er lend him wings to avoid it.”

So said—to the village he scamper'd along,
Poor wretch, with a petrified conscience;
His prayers unanswer'd—his appetite strong,
And all his attempts gone to nonsense.