Classic Poem

I never tasted the Pierian spring,
Of which great Pope does with such rapture sing.
For, since deprived from infancy of sight,
How should my muse in lofty numbers write?
Milton and Homer both, you say, were blind,
And where on earth can we their equals find?
But were they blind like me in infant state?
Or did they taste like me tenebrous fate?
No — long they lived great nature to explore,
Their minds enriching with poetic store.
Then in compassion say, ye critics, say
You'll cheer my soul with one reviving ray;
Nor frown indignant on my night-struck strain,
But for amusement bid me write again;
Yet friendly tell me, though I'm not sublimed,
My thoughts are rude, my numbers unrefined;
Since liberal pity all the wise commend,
Be then for once an helpless woman's friend!