Classic Poem

Strange is the Muse's Pow'r, whose Force divine
Can awe unruly Passions, and dissolve
The magick Bonds of Fear , of Grief , of Rage ,
Rescuing th'enchanted Soul. Such powerful Strains,
O Thomson! warble on thy moving Lyre,
While full of the inspiring God you play
Before the list'ning Graces , and invite
Aonian Hills to echo with thy Lays.
Thrice happy thou, amid the sacred Groves
Allow'd to walk, and taste Castalian Sweets,
To none but favour'd Bards allow'd. With thee
Converse the Grecian and the Roman Shades,
Familiar, and their Flame celestial breathe
In thy selected Breast, as did of old
By flow'ry Jordan the translated Seer
On his prophetick Follower. Doubly hail!
Restorer of the Poets sinking Name!
Not thee the Sons of Vanity engage,
Skill'd in the trifling Mode, affected Mien,
And empty Elegance of Dress and Form .
Thou better know'st t' employ th' amusive Hour,
Contemplative of Nature 's ample Page,
While with the various Scenes you deck your Song.
Philosophy! what Graces you inspire,
That swell the Poet's Heart, and tune his Lays!
Harmonious Numbers, Energy of Thought,
Each are thy Gift, and ev'ry high Regard
That lifts the Soul from trivial Cares below.
And such, pure Prophet of the Muse! reward
Thy Labours, Wisdom's most conspicuous Son!
A Mind where ev'ry Passion lies subdued,
And ev'ry Virtue reigns — Friendship , and Truth ,
And sweet Humility , the moral Crown.
O Britain 's happier Orpheus! born to charm
A senseless, Iron Offspring: Timely born!
To rouse her Genius, and redeem her Fame.

Thus I, untuneful, my impartial Lay
Attempt to sing; by cross-disposing Fates
Deny'd the Lot my peaceful Choice approves,
Of Friend and ev'ry pleasing Hope forlorn;
Yet not deserted by th' etherial Guest ,
Who cheers my Midnight Pillow, and diverts,
With sweet Amuse, my lonely, anxious Day,
Inspiring suff'ring Patience, Hope enlarg'd,
And Joys unmixt with Earth's impure Alloy.
But thou with Ease indulg'd, with Favour blest,
Receive unblushing what a generous Warmth
Due to thy Worth demands. Not small the Love,
Tho' unadorn'd the Praise — This rural Weed ,
Pluck'd by the Banks of Thames , my native Stream ,
Permit me on thy honour'd Brow to place;
Mean Tribute to thy long-accomplish'd Fame.