Classic Poem

With powder'd Wig, starch'd Band, and priestly Air,
B — — n for Souls pretends a World of Care —
Why should not B — — n in his Practice shine?
His Father mended well a Sole of mine.

The busy thoughts to narrow bounds confin'd,
Struggle for wider fields, and beat the wires
Of their poor cage: — impatience makes them blind
In gazing on the light of vain desires,
And they disperse — but hope broods o'er the mind,
And warms its dreams and fans its sleeping fires,
Till like that glorious bird that never tires,
It sits aloft in clouds and stars enshrin'd.
For me has virtue flower'd on love's sweet stem,
At Vesta's altar I have pour'd my vows:
I have tied wreaths of worship round the brows
Of Milek, and I wear his diadem, —
To suffering he the stamp of joy has given,
And pour'd on earth the sunny light of heaven.