Classic Poem

This day beginning to a creature gave
Not apt to love, though sacred Friendship's slave.
Grandeur and pomp may catch, not fix, her eyes;
Their charms the trifler knows not how to prize.
Her little soul, to meaner prospects bound,
Prefers substantial happiness to sound.
An humble cottage, and a chrystal flood,
A silent grotto, or a leafy wood,
More strike the sense of this insipid creature
Than all the rich magnificence in nature.
Yet to this merit may the wretch pretend,
That Howe and Pope vouchsafe to call her friend.