Classic Poem

A Muse who had roam'd to Parnassus in vain,
No subject for Envy to quarrel!
And Apollo himself had dismiss'd with disdain,
With only one sprig of his laurel.

This Muse, as she took her disconsolate way,
Unadorn'd with a passport to Fame,
Was told where true Genius had kindled a ray,
And humbly she offer'd her claim.

But a wish so presuming must surely surprise!
O RONTES denied it with horror;
But Modesty lent him that graceful disguise,
'Tis only for Genius to borrow.

O'er the radiance of Wit her fair mantle is thrown,
But know, the contrivance is vain!
Tho' her look is conceal'd, yet her air must be known,
And no art can her movements restrain.

She tells me with polish'd and exquisite art,
What politeness indeed may refine—
A grace to refusal 'tis her's to impart,
But still disappointment is mine!

What reason forbids, cou'd the muse but allow,
And ev'n cou'd she deem thee sincere;
Was ever her fame so unwelcome as now,
Or a compliment purchas'd so dear?