Classic Poem

TO ATTICUS .

B Y what strange fate, great talents are allied
To greatest faults, whose judgement can decide?
Whether the finer fibres of the brain,
Intensely bent, and stretching ev'n to pain,
Relaxing, may too frequently, require
Fresh fuel for the intellectual fire;
Or that rash Genius in its wild career,
All devious, visits each eccentric sphere,
And conversant with fancied forms of air,
Mocks the cold caution of terrestrial Care,
Now, bravely borne on seraph-wing sublime,
List'ning the Polar System's choral chime,
Now, 'mid the gloom of central H ADIS hurl'd,
Groping the rayless dungeons of the World,
Anon, with more effulgent face to rise,
And, sun-like, travel thro' serener skies,
'Till vile Intemperance, of hideous birth,
The struggling pinion chains to native earth,
And Reason's spark, irregularly bright,
At length exhausted, sinks in mournful night.
How sad the wreck! the triumph how malign!
When Vice allures the Muses to her shrine,
Round her black brow when roses are entwin'd,
And daemons revel o'er the ruin'd Mind!
In vain, for causes would stern Prudence seek,
But of the dread effect all Ages speak,
While on full many a minstrel's doom severe,
Relenting Pardon streams th' eternal tear!
Tho' mid the guilty, but illustrious band,
My humbler name unknown, must never stand;
Tho' little praise, alas! to me is due,
Would I deserv'd so little censure too!
Deeply imprest, th' unpleasing theme I feel,
Which conscious blushes, spite of pride, reveal,
Yet sooth'd, once more, by thy absolving smile,
Enrag'd Compunction's scorpion-sting beguile,
And find my soul from sensual bondage free,
Tutor'd by Virtue, A TTICUS , and thee!