Classic Poem

Nine summers o'er, and nine long winters too,
My Cinna's Smyrna bursts to public view;
While swift Hortensius, ere one year declines,
A volume writes of fifty thousand lines.——
Where the deep waves of distant Atrax run,
There shall sweet Smyrna's tuneful fame be known;
Smyrna shall live thro' each succeeding age;
While, poor Volusius! thy historic page
In ev'ry fish-stall of the town shall lie,
To wrap up herrings; and in Padua die:
Me the few labours of my Cinna please;
Let vulgar souls admire Antimachus' swoln lays.