Classic Poem

 Thus the shrill lark, on trembling wings,
Upborn in air still soaring sings,
At last almost escap'd from view,
Drops to the earth from whence he flew:
Ode-writers hence, if wise, should know,
How quick the fall from high to low .
The plowman who his song hath heard,
Cares not three farthings for the bird;
So those who deal in notes sublime,
Are rarely paid their loss of time.
 Tho' ills like these, and many more,
Invest the poet's garret-door,
Whose pen and looks alike confess
The sharpen'd features of distress;
Yet some there are who court the Nine ,
On whom the stars serener shine,
Who all at ease in Fortune's shades,
Sport with the fair A ONIAN Maids;
Whom no mean interests ever fire,
To prostitute the sacred lyre;
Whose artful strings are touch'd alone,
When willing Fancy gives the tone.
Whether intent to bring to light
That silent worth which shuns the sight;
Love's myrtle wreath for Beauty twine,
Or hang a lay on Friendship's shrine;
Some tale of fabled woe to rear,
And steal the plaudit of a tear;
To paint the triumph of a mind,
To honor train'd, by truth refin'd;
Or place the Hero bright in view,
And give to virtue, virtue's due.
Whate'er their theme, their only claim,
In all they write, is—honest fame.

 A Bard like this, who never knew
Those cares which oft his tribe pursue,
Pleas'd would employ his vacant hours,
By wak'ning Fancy's sportive pow'rs;
And if he haply chanc'd to start
Some subject which engag'd his heart,
If from that subject he could raise
Lines that might glow in Virtue's praise,
With anxious fondness he would nurse
To prosp'rous growth his infant verse;
And if, with diffidence and doubt,
He brought at last his offspring out,
Set it before the public eye,
To know if it should live, or die,
'Twas trusting to experience yet
That candor he so oft had met.