Classic Poem

Let not ungentle D APHNE'S scorn
Thy rising hopes restrain:
Apollo , pow'r of wit and verse,
Her favour sued in vain.

Tho' rude at first, the sacred branch
Of honour she denies,
Repeated efforts shall prevail,
And gain the beauteous' prize.

That beauteous prize the patient toils
Of P ERSEVERANCE claim:
Whose hand alone must weave the wreath
Of undecaying fame.

Far from the downy bed of sloth
The tuneful sisters fly:
Whose soul-refining arts, each grace
Of polish'd life supply.

At gay A URORA'S early call
Their pleasing labours rise:
Nor cease when V ESPER'S silent beam
Illumes the western skies.

At first, thro' paths perplex'd and rude
Their trembling vot'ries tread:
But soon confess the tedious way,
And ev'ry toil, repaid;

When safe, beyond the storms of life,
Before their ravish'd eyes,
The fair poetic land of joy
In smiling prospect lies.

There vernal airs eternal play,
To mortal climes unknown:
And flow'rs in living colours glow
Beneath a brighter sun.

There forms, that never struck the sense
Of vulgar sight, appear:
And music breathes, that never charm'd
The dull untutor'd ear.

No puzzling schemes of low-born care
Distract the peaceful mind,
Whose thoughts are by the gentle pow'rs
Of harmony refin'd.

No longer, then, the faithful voice
Of soothing friendship blame:
But follow, where the muses lead,
To happiness and fame.