Classic Poem

On his claiming the use of the corner-bed in the Chester Chronicle.

Dost thou, tuneful brother, claim
A lodging on thy road to fame?
Dost thou wish to lay thy head?
And seek repose in Fletcher's bed?
There dulness only bars permission —
To thee he gladly grants admission.

" Thou, sweetest songster, fall asleep! "
(I hear the sisters say, and weep)
" Shalt thou, whose ev'ry line is measure,
" Whose ev'ry strain is truth and treasure;
" Shalt thou recline with indolence?
" Forbid it, ye that love the Nine! —
" Forbid it, ye whom taste inspire,
" And song's spontaneous strains admire! —

" Shall we, appointed by the skies
" To weave the wreath that never dies;
" To lead the Heliconian stream,
" And give the Wreekin, Ida's fame;
" Shall we for this descend to earth,
" Attendant on the poet's birth?
" Impress with song's enchanting power,
" And guard from harm his natal hour? —
" Ah! no, from thee we still require
" The precept fair, the poet's fire;
" The verse, by Virtue's smile refined,
" To charm and meliorate mankind;
" To bid the dulcet strain reveal
" Each deed the good in vain conceal;
" Shew vice, as satire's pointed game,
" And brand the ingrate's hated name;
" Or, pleased, the grateful meed to raise
" The poet's, patriot's, hero's praise;
" Or give to ring the sylvan scene,
" Where Love and Nature own the theme;
" Where Flora paints her various bed,
" And fauns and fairies lightly tread,
" To form the dance of wily ways,
" While Pan, with glee paternal, plays;
" Perform, enchanting bard, thy duty,
" And Honor's bed shall ever hold thee;
" Proceed — nor Heaven's high purpose break,
" And keep thee, Warbler, still awake! "

Then Flet, hold him each inducement,
Thou fountain father of amusement;
Where'er thy page instructive goes,
Where Severn on the Deva flows;
Where Arvon lifts her summits bleak,
Or Derby points her many a peak;
Swift as thy arrows waft the theme,
And lead him, Fletcher, on to fame.
Thy premier too will aid thy wishes,
And range with taste the corner dishes:
Full well he forms the feast of reason,
Whose sallies all are attic season.