Classic Poem

'Tis true—yet 'tis no pity that 'tis true,
Many fine things they neither felt nor knew.
Unlike the sons of Europe's happier clime,
They never died to music's melting chime,
Or groan'd, as if in agonizing pain,
At some enervate, whining, sickly strain;
Nor would they sell their heritage of rights,
For long processions, fetes, and pretty sights,
Or barter for a bauble, or a feast,
All that distinguishes the man from beast.
With them, alas! the fairest masterpiece,
Of beggar'd Italy, or rifled Greece,
A chisell'd wonder, or a thing of paint,
A marble godhead, or a canvass saint,
Were poor amends for cities wrapt in flame,
A ruin'd land and deep dishonour'd name;
Nor would they mourn Apollo sent away,
More than the loss of Freedom's glorious day;
Among them was no driv'ling princely race,
Who'd beggar half a state, to buy a vase,
Or starve a province nobly to reclaim,
From mother Earth, a thing without a name,
Some mutilated trunk decay'd and worn,
Of head bereft, of legs and arms all shorn,
Worthless, except to puzzle learned brains,
And cause a world of most laborious pains,
To find if this same headless, limbless thing,
A worthless godhead was, or worthless king.