Classic Poem

BY THE SAME .

High on a bank, which different flow'rs compose,
The airy throne of wanton Fancy rose:
Her flowing tresses round her shoulders play'd,
A gaudy coronet, of feathers made,
Adorn'd her head, while, round her chair of state,
A group of visionary phantoms wait;
Some to amuse their giddy, thoughtless, queen,
In sprightly dances tript along the green;
Others, to please her, touch'd the tuneful lyre,
And taught the fickle goddess to admire;
Perpetual noise and laughter fill'd the place,
Unknown to Morpheus and his silent race.
Before her throne, from each surrounding clime,
In low submission bow'd the sons of rhime;
As round her seat the tuneful votaries drew,
Rich clouds of fragrance from their censers flew.
The goddess smiles; her smiles at once inspire;
And each with rapture tunes the vocal lyre.
The artists next, all candidates for fame,
An equal share in Fancy's favour claim.
Painting comes first, and, wondrous to the view,
The lifeless canvas flames, and lives anew.
And here her touches bid the figures glow
With joy's bright transports or the pangs of woe.
Here a soft Venus melts away in love,
And there she paints the majesty of Jove.
Next Sculpture moulds the marble to her will,
And vies with nature in some test of skill.
Each anxious artist as he reach'd the throne,
Felt new-wak'd powers and genius scarce his own.