Classic Poem

Suppose me free from pining care,
With head, and heart, quite debonnaire;
Or riding in a Vis-a-Vis,
Discoursing with a Belle Esprit;
Or walking in St. James's Park,
With some gay meteor of a spark,
Who talks of what he does not know;
A mixture of conceit and show;
Or wielding of the Critic's rod,
Dispensing favours with a nod;
Or grown, perhaps, an amoroso,
A Dulcinea del Toboso;
Or deep immers'd in pains and study,
Tho' I am still so thick and muddy;
Grant that this vision were most true,
In ev'ry state the same to you.
Tho doom'd thro' various scenes to range,
My love to thee will never change.
Apollo should inspire my lyre,
And raise my notes a little high'r,
To sing thy praise; his own bright choice,
Who hail'd thee with approving voice;
Bade thee preside beneath the sky,
A paragon of harmony;
The St. Cecilia of our isle,
On whom the Loves, and Graces smile.
Take this Melange, nor sharp, or sweet,
Would for thy taste it were more meet;
High season'd with true attic salt,
For insipidity's a fault
Which sense and learning cannot bear;
Tho' I confess my bill of fare.
Nor can I interlard with wit,
Or offer one delicious bit.
Friendship, like hunger, will excuse
The frailties of the Cook, or Muse;
Receive an Essay, or a Meal,
With grace from those who love reveal.
On this I trust, and truly wish,
You to receive my homely Dish;
Which plac'd upon your friendly board,
With ease and plenty ever stor'd,
Will there its due acceptance find,
As thou art to my failings blind.
It is alas! a strange compound
Of incongruity and sound;
Yet sure in this we must agree,
'Tis an Epitome — of me.