Classic Poem

( NOW COUNTESS OF DUNMORE .)

What ails you, Fancy? you're become
Colder than Truth, than Reason duller!
Your wings are worn, your chirping's dumb,
And ev'ry plume has lost its colour.

You droop like geese, whose cacklings cease
When dire St. Michael they remember,
Or like some bird who just has heard
That Fin's preparing for September!

Can you refuse your sweetest spell
When I for Susan's praise invoke you?
What, sulkier still, you pout and swell
As if that lovely name would choke you.

" Go seek (I hear the imp reply)
Those dull cold goddesses you mention,
For such a theme you'll vainly try
To borrow beauty from invention.

" No wonder that I droop, forsooth!
For Fancy, Sir , is out of season,
When all your praise can be but Truth,
And all your adoration — Reason! "