Classic Poem

Years , do your worst, and spare not me ;
For pride and spirits are no more: —
The wind has bent a Summer's tree,
And shatter'd leaves the wreck deplore.

The beams of Hope , in youth array'd,
Have sunk in gloom their hallow'd fire;
The Muse and Fancy are decay'd,
Nor one uplifted thought inspire.

But you have left me an estate ,
That feeds the avarice of Taste : —
By Sisters of the vernal date,
As in my teens , I 'm still embrac'd.

Their sprightly sense, and glowing pen,
Make Winter's frost a Summer's day,
Atone for perfidies of men,
And with a bury'd Hermit play.