Classic Poem

But few the Delian god inspires
With genuine true poetic fires;
But few who bear the poet's name,
Shall share the lasting wreath of fame:
Of those who woo the wayward nine,
Young suppliants at Apollo's shrine,
Few live in the historic page,
Beyond the limits of an age.
Like busy glittering butterflies,
Which wak'd by genial suns arise,
In every age a race succeeds
To tread the fair Castalian meads;
And cheer'd by approbation's smile,
Bask in its vivid beams awhile.
Ere long, their gleam of sunshine past,
Neglect's cold winter comes at last;
Another race of flutterers gay
Succeeds to spend their little day;
Engaging each beholder's eye,
By all the charms of novelty.
Ile who would ask of future days
Their dearest meed, the wreath of praise,
Must boast a vig'rous active mind,
By culture aided and refin'd,
Where genius, judgment, taste, conspire
To form the bard “a soul of fire”—
A heart whose feelings overflow
With quickest sense of joy or woe;
Within his breast, the muse's cell,
No ruder passions e'er should dwell,
Nor should anxiety, nor fear,
Nor heart-consuming grief, be there;
But hope with joy-illumin'd eye,
Still looking to futurity,
Cheering misfortune's gloomy hours,
As sunbeams gild the summer showers.
And chief o'er ev'ry power beside,
Imagination should preside,
Who with one keen commanding glance
Makes æras, distant far, advance;
And from oblivion's dusky gloom,
Bids time's remotest ages come;
Or peoples regions of her own,
With her ideal forms alone.
Still to complete the poet's name,
To give him never-ending fame:
And to immortalize his song,
Harmonious language, rich and strong,
Should in spontaneous numbers flow,
And ev'ry thought with beauty glow.
Talents so rare as those combin'd,
Center'd in one capacious mind,
A few have shar'd in ev'ry age,
With shine upon the world's wide stage,
With beams of such transcendent light,
As the bright regent of the night;
'Mongst lesser stars, whose feeble rays
Are half extinguished in her blaze.