Classic Poem

How is that favour'd mortal blest,
Whose soul poetic ardor fires!
If Phaebus fills his raptured breast, —
If every thought the god inspires!

No dull vacuity he knows,
Who still diverts his leisure hours
Where the Castalian fountain slows,
In gathering sweet Parnassian flowers.

If Mars with threat'ning brow appears,
And angry potentates engage,
To shake once more their hostile spears,
Then sounds to war the martial page.

But if fair Peace, with look benign,
The verdant olive branch extend,
Her praises in each dulcet line,
With heavenly harmony is penn'd.

If ever o'er his happy days
Misfortune spreads her sable night,
Through the dark gloom Apollo's rays
Beam on his soul a chearing light.

Though barr'd within a prison's gate,
Lost to the world, forlorn he lies,
Around him there the Muses wait,
And black despair from fancy flies.

He only asks for same and health;
If these the bounteous gods bestow,
On Helicon he'll find more wealth
Than can from rich Pactolus flow.