Classic Poem

A BARD , unlike the bards of yore,
Who drew from Aganippe's well,
Inspiring draughts of poesy,
As their harmonious numbers tell;
Unlike the Roman bard who lov'd
The produce of Falernian vines,
Which made (for elegance and wit)
His songs unrivall'd as his wines:
A hapless bard of modern days,
Once tried some sonnets to produce,
Unaided by the muse's spring,
Or by the grape's enliv'ning juice;
Nor copious draughts of ale he tried,
When his invention prov'd too slow;
Small beer was all he could afford,
To make his tardy numbers flow.
Two good stone bottles he had got,
And with his fav'rite bev'rage fill'd,
And cork'd the frisky liquor close,
In frugal housewif'ry well skill'd;
And thought when on a distant day
(A day he never was to see)
He drew his simple bev'rage forth,
How brisk and pleasant it would be.
The sequel how shall I relate?
The poet's beer was beer of spirit,
The bottles, near each other plac'd,
Quarrell'd about superior merit:
At night was heard a sudden crash,
The dreaming bard affrighted woke,
And thought, from such a dreadful noise,
Each window in the house was broke.
The morn disclos'd a woeful scene,
The beer was swimming on the floor,
The bottles scatter'd here and there,
Broke in a hundred bits or more.
The bard, with sorrow in his looks,
Beheld this sad catastrophe —
— Oh! my lov'd cordial — he exclaim'd,
— What shall I do for want of thee;
— This cruel blow strikes all my hopes,
— And all my promis'd laurels fade;
— I cannot write, I cannot think,
— I cannot live without thy aid.