Classic Poem

How dull is Time's new journey here!
How uniform each opening year!
What are its presents? Tell me, Joyce —
Gifts ready-made for Hobson's choice!
It found thee with endearments grac'd,
With sense, with manners, and with taste;
A form that shifting sands have spar'd;
A mind perennial , unimpair'd;
A heart , for better worlds design'd,
In malice deaf, to censure blind;
A temper , cheerful as the ray
That lifts the curtain of the day:
It found thee lov'd by all the good;
And what it found it has renew'd ; —
It neither adds, nor takes away:
I have no compliments to pay.