Classic Poem

Once more, my friend, I touch the trembling lyre,
And in my bosom feel poetic fire,
For thee I quit the Laws more rugged ways,
To pay my humble tribute to thy lays.
What, though I daily turn each learned sage,
And labour through the unenlighten'd page:
Wak'd by thy lines, the borrow'd flames I feel,
As flints give fire when aided by the steel.
Though in sulphureous clouds of smoke confin'd,
Thy rural scenes spring fresh into my mind:
Thy genius in such colours paints the chase,
The real to fictitious joys give place.
When the wild music charms my ravish'd ear,
How dull, how tasteless Handel's notes appear!
Ev'n Farinelli's self the palm resigns,
He vields—but to the music of thy lines.
If friends to poetry can yet be found;
Who, without blushing, sense prefer to sound;
Then let this soft, this soul-enfeebling band,
These warbling minstrels quit the beggar'd land.
They but a momentary joy impart,
'Tis you, who touch the soul, and warm the heart.
How tempting do thy silvan sports appear!
Ev'n wild ambition might vouchsafe an ear,
Might her fond lust of power a while compose.
And gladly change it for thy sweet repose.
No fierce, unruly senates, threaten here,
No axe, no scaffold, to the view appear,
No envy, disappointment, and despair.
Here, blest vicissitude, whene'er you please,
You step from exercise to learned ease;
Turn o'er each classic page, each beauty trace,
The mind unwearied in the pleasing chase.
Oh! would kind Heav'n such happiness bestow,
Let fools, let knaves, be masters here below!
Grandeur and place, those baits to catch the wise,
And all their pageant train, I pity and despise.