Classic Poem

The feather'd Bard, like all the tuneful Kind,
Sings most, as mosThe leaves the World behind;
And finds their Fate; by soaring still so high,
To shrink, and lessen to the Vulgar Eye.
Like them, the more he gains upon the Skies,
So much the farther from his Food he flies;
But to the World as he does lesser shew,
The less to Him appears the World below.
Let this small Songster's airy Course be mine,
Who nought but Pleasure by my Flights design:
For might my Musick but as sweetly sound,
I'd build my Nest like His, upon the Ground.
When from the World at last I'm forc'd to fly
Upwards like him, I'll do it chearfully:
Who like the Lark, ne'er sing, or fly from Thee,
But to make You, my Mate, to follow Me.