Classic Poem

IV.

Is't possible, (my Lord,) you can excuse,
This rude Desertion of a bashful Muse;
Who ne'er with such an Honour blest before,
Dares not longer now attend,
Lest she thro' Ignorance offend
The Pow'r she would adore.
Thus left unguided in a foreign Way,
Forgive me, that I know not how
My due Devoirs to pay.

Hecatombs I would bestow,
And fragrant Gums on smoaking Censers strow;
Joyful Peans! should resound
Thro' all the vocal Groves around,
Ev'n Echo should her Plaints forget,
And multiply the Sound.
But Poet's Fate is always poor,
And Wishes bound my present Store.