Classic Poem

As when, by play retarded, past his hour,
The scampering school-boy ventures to the door,
With throbbing breast, lists to the busy noise,
And starts, to hear the Master's awful voice,
Oft sighs and looks — now offers to burst in,
Now backward shrinks, and dreads a smarting skin,
Till desp'rate grown, by fear detain'd more late,
He lifts the latch, and boldly meets his fate:

So I, dear Sir, have oft snatch'd up the quill
To hail your ear, yet have been silent still.
Aw'd by superior worth my pen forgot
Its wonted pow'r, and trembled out a blot;
The Muse sat mute, and hung her languid head,
And Fancy crawl'd, with diffidence and dread,
Till, forc'd at last, I spurn the phantom Fear ,
And dare to face your dread tribunal here.

No flow'ry sweets I bring, tho' Summer reigns,
And Flocks, delighted, rove thro' painted plains;
Tho' glitt'ring Brooks flow smooth, meand'ring by,
And Larks soar, warbling thro' the azure sky;
And Meads and Groves rejoice — to me unblest;
For, oh! bleak Winter raves within my breast;
Here whirls a Storm, tho' hid from human sight,
Fiercer than winds that howl thro' gloomy Night.

As Griefs reveal'd are robb'd of half their sting,
And seeming Doubts, when told, oft take to wing,
Permit me here, some mis'ries to unnest,
That long have harbour'd in my lab'ring breast.

Oft pale ey'd Poverty, in sullen state,
Stalks round, and threatens to deform my fate;
Points to the future times, and, grinning, says,
" Old Age and I shall curse thy Ev'ning days;
His shaking hand shall change thy locks to gray,
Thy head to baldness, and thy strength to clay;
Make thy sad Hor'zon with dark tempests roll,
And lead me forward to complete the whole:
To count thy groans — to hear thee hopeless mourn,
And wave these trophies o'er thy closing Urn. "

Then mad Ambition revels thro' my brain,
And restless bids me spurn Life's grov'lling plain,
Awake the Muse, and soft enrapt'ring Lyre,
To G*******'s praise, our Villa's friendly Sire;
In glowing colours paint his rural Seat,
Where Songsters warble, and where Lambkins bleat;
Where groves and plains, in sweet disorder lie,
Hills rough with woods, that tow'ring cleave the sky;
And darksome woody Vales, where hid from sight,
Lone C ALDER brawls o'er many a rocky height;
Tell, in soft strains, how rich our plains appear,
What plenty crowns them each revolving year,
Till smiles approving bless my task and Fame,
Enrol the Patriot, and the Poet's name.

But when (sad theme!) I view my feeble Rhyme,
And weigh my worth for such a flight sublime,
With tearful eye, survey the fate of those,
Whose pow'rful learning shielded not from foes;
Damp'd at the thought, Fear clogs the Muse's wing,
And Grief and Hope by turns inspire or sting.

While such sad thoughts, such grim reflections roll,
In dark succession, o'er my gloomy soul,
One ray from You, to chase the chearless gloom,
And bid fair Fancy's fields their sweets resume,
Wou'd lift my heart, light as the sweepy wind,
And deeper bind me your indebted friend.

When darkness reigns, or Ev'ning silence deep,
Some moments rescue from the jaws of Sleep,
Bid your sweet Muse unfold her downy wings,
And teach a Youth to touch the trembling strings;
Dispel his doubts, arouse his hovering flame,
And point the road that leads to bliss and Fame.