Classic Poem

YOUTH ! as thou read'st some celebrated page,
Where Fancy all her charmful pow'rs display'd,
Hast thou not curs'd thy star, with impious rage,
That sunk thee, a dull blind-worm, in the shade?

Ah! fairer far thy calm, inglorious lot;
Sweeter, tho' uninspir'd, thy leaden sleep:
And tho' by Fame's obstrep'rous trump forgot,
O'er thy green turf each neighb'ring hind will weep.

He, who these polish'd lines so well could form,
Was Passion's slave, was Indiscretion's child;
Now, earth-enamour'd, grov'ling with the worm;
Now, scraph-plum'd, the wonderful, the wild!

From his grave the trav'ler turns aside: —
Youth! by his own red hand thy envy'd fav'rite died.