Classic Poem

Who , with a Critic's eye, this book runs o'er,
Detects perhaps, a thousand faults, and more,
Impartially the Author's plea must hear,
And then perhaps will cease to be severe.
When reason first adorn'd my infant mind,
To books and poetry my heart inclin'd,
And as my years advanc'd, the passion grew,
And fair ideas round my fancy flew.
The Muses seem'd to court me for their friend,
But fortune would not to their suit attend;
She understood who proper subjects were,
To hold a converse with these airy fair,
Must be possess'd at least of independence,
That to the Muses they may give attendance;
By books and study fructify the mind,
And lead the genius where it was inclin'd;
The inauspicious Dame, deny'd that I,
Should thus, where nature's self inclin'd, apply;
For she perceiv'd, I did the Muse befriend,
And could my days in contemplation spend;
Yet so contracted, circumscrib'd my line,
I paus'd—if to discard the tuneful Nine.

Now duty calls my thoughts a different way;
Justice enjoins; I must her call obey.
So, when the Muses come on anxious wing,
Some pleasing subject to my fancy bring;
I bid them fly where peaceful leisure rests,
'Tis vain in me to entertain such guests:
They oft affect a deafness, draw more near,
Declare that they can no repulses bear;
Demand admittance, vow they are inclin'd
To stay, till they imprint it on my mind.
Sometimes they are less bold, more shily come,
And with indiff'rence ask if I'm at home.
If duty will admit, I ask them in,
When some engaging converse they begin;
But ere, perhaps, the conversation's o'er,
Duty commands that we converse no more:
Now duty's call, I never must refuse,
I rise,—and with a sigh myself excuse;
Tell them I must withdraw a while, and when
Duty admits I will return again.
Sometimes, till I return, they deign to stay;
Sometimes they take offence, and fly away,
And never on that subject visit more;
But bid me fate's contracted hand deplore.
Thus what the Author to the world presents,
Appears through numberless impediments;
And what of praise, or of dispraise, you view,
To Nature and the Muse is wholly due;
This, she presumes, will candid minds suffice,
And for her each defect apologise.