Classic Poem

Come forth, each vile, historic page,
Born of Volusius' scribbling rage;
Fulfil my nymph's gay promise now!
For, to the sacred Queen of joy,
And to her soul-subduing Boy,
She offer'd up this playful vow:

That if again I'd wear her chain;
And cease my fierce Iambic strain;
She'd give unto the limping God
The worst of poets that e'er wrote;
Whose works she'd to the flames devote,
Flames kindled with ill-omen'd wood!

And well the saucy wanton knew,
She could not keep her oath so true,
As when this merry choice she made:
Then, o great queen, absolve the fair;
If jest, if laughter be thy care;
And note the debt, as duly paid:

Thou, Ocean's offspring; who art seen
O'er holy Ida's groves to reign,
Where first thy rustic fanes were known;
O'er Syria's regions, where the eye
No distant boundary can spy;
O'er Ancon, love's devoted town!

Thou! who delightest oft to tread
Where reedy Cnidus lifts her head;
Where Amathus with Golgos vies;
Or where, upon Dyrrachium's shores,
Wild Adria treasures up her stores
Of billowy storms, that vex the skies.

And sure, bright queen, thou wilt allow
Sweetly facetious was the vow!——
Then come, and to the flames retire,
Instant, each vile historic page,
Born of Volusius' scribbling rage,
Without one spark of wit, or fire!