Classic Poem

A Satire in a pompous stile
With piercing eye and poignant smile
His poison'd pen was taking,
No flatt'ring glasses round were plac'd
But microscopes his chamber grac'd
And venom'd darts were making —

Enraptur'd, with a conscious pride
He seiz'd (with vengeance by his side)
The implement of malice —
When sudden, to his wond'ring sight
A form appear'd, so heavenly bright
'Twas fit to grace a palace!
'Twas Charity, divinely fair,
Her awful anger who cou'd bear?
'Twas like the lightning's ray. —
Mute with surprise, see Satire stand,
When quick she seiz'd him by the hand
And snatch'd his pen away.

Sure Satire now will rage and storm
What's all the beauty of her form?
Can that to splendour raise him? —
No! — Satire scorns all vengeance now,
Sweetly subdued, he knows not how!
And owns her smile repays him.