Classic Poem

Admire not, if the grateful Muse,
With fond Affection, still pursues
Thee, Pride and Glory of a Race,
Whom ev'ry Muse and Science grace!
They in thy gen'rous Bosom shine,
And lighten from thy Eyes divine!

Thus raptur'd, I the Strain essay'd,
And begg'd Apollo's powerful Aid.

The angry God in Rage reply'd,
Go check thy Insolence and Pride;
Not that I blame thy happy Choice,
But 'tis too lofty for thy Voice;
Who pine like thee, with Want oppress'd,
Forsaken, comfortless, distress'd:
In vain attempt sublimer Lays,
The beauteous Work of Minds at Ease.

What tho' in early Hours of Life,
" Ere yet a Mother or a Wife,
I tuned thy infant Voice to sing,
And plac'd thee near my hallow'd Spring.
My fav'rite Swift thy Numbers prais'd,
Cou'd mortal Worth be higher rais'd?
Yet I'll no more thy Wants supply,
Since Fortune leaves you, so will I.
Thy laurel Chaplet now resign:
Let mournful Yew and Cypress twine
Around thy melancholy Head,
'Till thou art number'd with the Dead:
Nor dare to let thy Female Pen
Profane the first, and best of Men:
As well, when with Meridian Rays
I give the Summer Noon-tide Blaze,
Might'st thou expect to add new Light
To Beams intolerably bright,
As hope to heighten * * * *'s Fame,
Or add new Lustre to his Name.
Whate'er adorns the Wise and Good,
By him is truly understood;
Nor lives he for Himself alone.
But Humankind his Bounty own.

Convinc'd, abash'd, I dropp'd my Suit;
Wonder and Sorrow held me mute;
Yet, tho' I wake the String no more,
Silent thy Virtues I adore.

O! let thy just superior Sense
Forgive this last, this fond Offence.
Led by Despair, the Hand of Death
Must quickly stop this vital Breath:
His fatal Pow'r alone can part
Thy Image from my grateful Heart.