Classic Poem

From thy loose lines, I turn my eyes away,
Nor know, o'erspread with blushes , what to say:
The modest muses , wounded, by thy strain ,
For me , and for themselves , do thus complain,

O THOU ! our country's folly and expence!
Dull foe to Tragedy and God-like sense!
Too long mean, mercenary shade, too long,
Has't thou these Isles inchanted with thy song .
Musick's soft G OD unbinds the charm, he rais'd ,
He blest thy tongue, and while he blest , we prais'd ;
By thee polluted , he disclaims his choice,
And will no longer warble in thy voice.
His trembling notes, where melting softness hung,
And every grace , will seek a chaster tongue.
No more, the lover shall thy song repeat ,
No more, the FAIR ONE sigh — ' Tis wondrous sweet!

Oh! guilty S ENSESINO ! thou, no more,
Shalt bravo! bravo! hear — or loud encore .
The loose and dull , shall all thy audience be;
The chaste and witty shall resent for me.
All unattended shall thy aukward form,
To sad, uncrowded scenes, or whine , or storm:
Thy wretched ha — shall unapplauded, grow,
And ill-plac'd bays fall, with'ring from thy brow .
Know, Songster, Julius, Godlike chief disdains
Thy shrill, unnatural, ungraceful , strains:
With rage redoubled, Pompey's ghost must burn,
To find such tears profane his sacred urn.

R EMEMBER , Echo , soon thou'lt know the time
Stript of thy robes, thy legions , and thy rhyme;
Thou poor Machine, of mean delusive sound,
When I shall see thy temples all unbound ,
And those who heroes act , like heroes, crown'd
THOU to thy famish'd Italy shalt go,
And rival Faustus , to the shades , below.