Classic Poem

In Eden's vale, where early fancy wrought
Her wild embroidery on the ground of thought,
Where Pembroke's grottos, strew'd with Sidney's bays,
Recall'd the dreams of visionary days,
Thus the fond Muse, that sooth'd my vacant youth,
Prophetic sung, and what she sung was truth.

" Boy, break thy lyre, and cast thy reed away;
Vain are the honours of the fruitless bay.
Though with each charm thy polish'd lay should please,
Glow into strength, yet soften into ease;
Should Attic fancy brighten every line,
And all Aonia's harmony be thine;
Say would thy cares a grateful age repay?
Fame wreathe thy brows, or Fortune gild thy way?
Ev'n her own fools, if Fortune smile, shall blame;
And Envy lurks beneath the flowers of Fame.

Yet, if resolv'd, secure of future praise,
To tune sweet songs, and live melodious days,
Let not the hand, that decks my holy shrine,
Round Folly's head the blasted laurel twine.
Just to thyself, dishonest grandeur scorn;
Nor gild the bust of meanness nobly born.
Let truth, let freedom still thy lays approve!
Respect my precepts, and retain my love!