Classic Poem

No slavish hireling, whose inglorious muse
Spins the dull lay for mean and sordid views,
No grov'ling flatterer, whose deceitful art
Can veil the native feelings of the heart!
No wretch like these, with mercenary pen,
Calls thee, thou poor Defamer, from thy den!
That eye which saw the lib'ral hand bestow,
When humble want confess'd its piercing woe,
The ear which heard such gen'rous warmth press'd,
Which glow'd benignant in the owner's breast;
These shall confute thy vile malignant strain,
And treat injurious Folly with disdain!—
Malice alone such rhet'ric cou'd produce,
Which shines in rage, in falshood and abuse.
No love of virtue sure such zeal inspir'd,
But hatred and revenge thy bosom fir'd!
To such who dwell, like pois'nous snakes conceal'd,
Oblivion grants their wish—a Coward's shield!—
Virtue is mild—all gentle and serene!
Divine her look, and graceful is her mien;
Her frown has dignity—but when severe,
Even then she shews that Charity is dear:
Insult she knows not, to a mind oppress'd,
Nor wounds the spirit Fortune has depress'd;
Her praise is Honour, in the truest sense—
And ev'n her censure is Benevolence!