Classic Poem

Wounded by severest scorn,
His fir'd soul flashing o'er his face,
Mid the cheerless waste forlorn,
Mark yon stripling's wayward pace,
Often tho' he heaves a sigh,
Inspiration's in his eye!

Youth! I read that meaning smile:
Conscious of superior worth,
'Tis thine anguish to beguile,
'Tis to mock the pomp of birth,
'Tis to shame the senseless crew,
Who never yet thy feelings knew!

What, tho' Passion sway thy soul,
Seldom yet by Prudence won;
Beyond the bounds of her control,
Thou art Fancy's favor'd son;
Fortune's tricks but ill agree
With thy spirit fancy-free!

Must the meanest heir of gold,
Riot in sublime excess,
And that bosom, never cold,
No unenvy'd transport bless,
Thou, at best, degraded boy!
Doom'd to steal a sickly joy.

Could'st thou sing the feats of wine,
And never taste the purple stream!
Could'st thou paint the bliss divine,
Nor Beauty gild thy glowing dream?
Restriction hence! no pedant art
Can match the science of the heart.

When these sapient saws expire,
And slumber with old sages past;
When these frigid rules retire,
Like autumn's leaf before the blast;
When their memory is flown,
Taste shall claim him for his own.

“Often,” will Tradition say,
“Near yon spot of sacred green,
When Twilight wav'd her banner grey,
Did I note his museful mien:
Now, conversing with the air;
Sunk, anon, in dumb despair;

“If alas! some faults he had,
They were more than mortal sure;
Sweetest tho', his words, when sad,
Ne'er did they aggrieve the poor;
When this plain he, haply, prest,
The pilgrim's pray'r his footstep blest!

“Strew your vernal tribute round!
Round your fading flow'rets strew!
Pity! consecrate the ground,
Where sleeps a breast to Pity true;
So, shall Genius' humble grave
“Boast the honours, once, he gave!”