Classic Poem

A SWAIN , within whose native vale alone,
Ere this blest time, was heard his simple reed,
Ambitious, now, of Glory's dazzling meed,
Essays the loftier Lyre's majestic tone;

Feeling, perchance, nor Fancy, yet, are fled,
Nor lost the charms that from their influence spring;
For those celestial forms were wont to fling,
Their faery visions o'er my youthful head;

But where amid Expression's copious store,
For raptur'd thought fit diction may I find?
How dress th' exuberance of my grateful mind,
In chaste, tho' glowing terms, untried before?

Patron and Pride! o'er my unvarying cheek,
No blush for servile flatt'ry shall arise;
Yet ah! while timid doubts, in vain, disguise
The modest soul,—let meaning Silence speak:

Thou can'st not, surely, A TTICUS ! refuse
That poor, frail tribute of th' indebted Muse!