Classic Poem

O thou! whose virtues sanctify thy state,
O great without the vices of the great!
Form'd by a dignity of mind to please,
To think, to act, with elegance and ease!
Say, wilt thou listen while I tune the string,
And sing to thee who gav'st me ease to sing?
Unskill'd in verse, I haunt the silent grove,
Yet lowly shepherds sing to mighty Jove,
And mighty Jove attends the shepherds vows,
And gracious what his suppliants ask bestows:
So by thy favour may the muse be crown'd,
And plant her laurels in more fruitful ground;
The grateful muse shall in return bestow
Her spreading laurels to adorn thy brow.
Thus, guarded by the tree of Jove, a flow'r
Shoots from the earth, nor fears th' inclement show'r,
And when the fury of the storm is laid,
Repays with sweets the hospitable shade.
Severe their lot who when they long endure
The wounds of Fortune late receive a cure!
Like ships in storms o'er liquid mountains tost,
Ere they are sav'd must almost first be lost;
But you with speed forbid distress to grieve:
He gives by halves who hesitates to give.
Thus when an angel views mankind distrest
He feels compassion pleading in his breast;
Instant the heav'nly guardian cleaves the skies,
And pleas'd to save on wings of lightning flies.
Some the vain promises of courts betray,
And gaily straying, they are pleas'd to stray;
The flatt'ring nothing still deludes their eyes,
Seems ever near, yet ever distant flies:
As perspectives present the object nigh,
Tho' far remov'd from the mistaking eye,
Against our reason fondly we believe,
Assist the fraud, and teach it to deceive:
As the saint traveller, when night invades,
Sees a false light relieve the ambient shades,
Pleas'd he beholds the bright delusions play,
But the false guide shines only to betray;
Swift he pursues, but still the path mistakes,
O'er dang'rous marshes or thro' thorny brakes;
Yet obstinate in wrong, he toils to stray
With many a weary stride o'er many a painful way.
So man pursues the phantom of his brain,
And buys his disappointment with his pain:
At length when years invidiously destroy
The pow'r to taste the long-expected joy,
Then Fortune envious sheds her golden show'rs,
Malignly smiles, and curses him with stores.
Thus o'er the urns of friends departed weep
The mournful kindred, and fond vigils keep;
Ambrosial ointments-o'er their ashes shed,
And scatter useless roses on the dead;
And when no more avail the world's delights,
The spicy odours and the solemn rites,
With fruitless pomp they deck the senseless tombs,
And waste profusely floods of vain perfumes.