Classic Poem

I was not born to Helicon, nor dare
Presume to think myself a Muse's heir.
I have no title to Parnassus hill,
Nor any acre of it by the will
Of a dead ancestor, nor could I be
Aught but a tenant unto poetry.
But thy adoption quits me of all fear,
And makes me challenge a child's portion there.
I am akin to heroes, being thine,
And part of my alliance is divine.
Orpheus, Musaeus, Homer too, beside
Thy brothers by the Roman mother's side,
As Ovid, Virgil, and Latin lyre
That is so like thy Horace--the whole choir
Of poets are by thy adoption all
My uncles; thou hast given me power to call
Phoebus himself my grandsire; by this grant
Each sister of the Nine is made my aunt.
Go, you that reckon from a large descent
Your lineal honours, and are well content
To glory in the age of your great name,
Though on a herald's faith you build the same,
I do not envy you, nor think you blest
Though you may bear a gorgon on your crest
By direct line from Perseus; I will boast
No farther than my father; that's the most
I can, or should be proud of, and I were
Unworthy his adoption if that here
I should be dully modest; boast I must,
Being son of his adoption, not his lust.
And to say truth, that which is best in me
May call you father, 'twas begot by thee.
Have I a spark of that celestial flame
Within me, I confess I stole the same,
Prometheus-like, from thee; and may I feed
His vulture when I dare deny the deed.
Many more moons thou hast that shine by night,
All bankrupts, were 't not for a borrowed light,
Yet can forswear it; I the debt confess
And think my reputation ne'er the less.
For father, let me be resolved by you:
Is 't a disparagement from rich Peru
To ravish gold, or theft, for wealthy ore
To ransack Tagus', or Pactolus' shore?
Or does he wrong Alcinous, that for want
Doth take from him a sprig or two to plant
A lesser orchard? Sure it cannot be;
Nor is it theft to steal some flames from thee.
Grant this, and I'll cry, Guilty, as I am,
And pay a filial reverence to thy name.
For when my muse upon obedient knees
Asks not a father's blessing, let her leese
The fame of this adoption; 'tis a curse
I wish her, 'cause I cannot think a worse.
And here, as piety bids me, I entreat
Phoebus to lend thee some of his own heat
To cure thy palsy, else I will complain
He has no skill in herbs; poets in vain
Make him the god of physic. 'Twere his praise
To make thee as immortal as thy bays,
As his own Daphne; 'twere a shame to see
The god not love his priest more than his tree.
But if heaven take thee, envying us thy lyre,
'Tis to pen anthems for an angels' choir.