Classic Poem

The Feather'd Songster, like all Bards, (we find)
Sings more, as more he flies from all Mankind;
So like Men, to the World, and Vulgar Sights,
Seems less, but as the higher are his Flights;
Does on the Ground too, like the Poet lie,
But in his Singing never to rise high;
Who but the more out of our SighThe goes,
Still, like his Notes, more high and chearful grows;
Rises as much still, with his Notes, as Wings,
The more out of our Sight, the more he Sings;
And still the more he gets above each Cloud,
The Feather'd Poet's farthest from his Food;
High-flying Bards, (so may we still observe)
For their High-Flights, are nearer still to starve;
Who, but the more above the World they soar,
Will mind it less still, as their Singing more;
So, the more high the High-flown Songsters go,
And the less they seem to the World below,
The World seems less to them, above it too:
Let the small Soaring Songster's Course be mine,
Whose Flights like his, to th' open Air incline,
Who nought but Pleasure by my Flights design;
More high to have them, more low wou'd I lie,
And when I from the World am forc'd to flie,
Upwards, like him, I'd do it chearfully;
Especially, if follow'd by Thee too,
For then my Flight ev'n Heaven wou'd to me grow;
Who, like the Lark, ne'r sing, or flie from Thee,
But to make Thee, (my Mate) to follow Me.