Classic Poem

Steep is the path that marks the Muse's hill,
Abrupt and rude, to those who toil below;
But on the summit lies th' inspiring rill;
By whose bright banks the flow'rs of fancy blow:
Ah! deign, great Master of that genuine glow
Which burns, superior, in the patriot breast,
To shew me, where the wreaths ambrosial grow;
Where amaranths, in bloomy verdure drest,
Fling fragrance thro' the pure poetic clime;
So may I weave, with warbled spells of rhime,
A lasting crown to bind thy honor'd brow,
Worthy thy front to wear, a Poet to bestow;
For led by thee, my fault'ring step may gain
The envied height, all else, is toil, and pain!