Classic Poem

If weeping could to life his shade restore
I'd drain my eyestrings to recall my master,
The best of men, of friends and of musicians;
For so I found him, who, with gen'rous pity,
When like an infant wandering and forlorn
My infant muse of all implor'd assistance,
He only show'd compassion to her cries,
Fost'ring the wretch with a paternal fondness.
He made her his adopted darling charge,
Rang'd into order her confus'd ideas,
Corrected her mistakes by friendly reason,
And taught her ev'n to think. Shall, then, the muse
Leave him unsung by whose fond care she sings?
Or, vainly to herself her rise ascribing,
Suffer his name to vanish in oblivion?
No, as the labour and the toil were his,
Be his, the glory; let the grateful muse
Attempt a name but for her Westein's sake,
That when it shall be said, in times succeeding,
(For, like the Phoenix, does the poet's fame
Rise from his ashes) that she well has sung,
He too may be a partner in the praise.