Classic Poem

NOT that I, once, in thy paternal shade,
The golden minutes snatch'd of transient joy,
Nor, yet, that thy sweet song would fondly aid,
With softest sympathy, the minstrel-boy,

Do I exalt the artless voice of praise;
Since each poetic eye, tho' low the theme,
Must catch the lustre of these orient rays,
That tenderly illume thy raptur'd dream:

Tho' much luxuriant Fancy has improv'd
My worth obscure, yet deem me not so cold,
That flatt'ry soothes me not from lips belov'd:
Lorn Anguish still my conscious heart may hold,

And yet its pulse in thy effulgence play,
As frost-work, glist'ning melts, before the eye of day.