Classic Poem

The glow-worm scribblers, of a feeble age,
Pale twinklers of an hour, provoke my rage;
In each dark hedge, we start an insect fire,
Which lives by night , and must at dawn expire.
Yet, such their number , that their specks combine,
And the unthinking vulgar swear they shine .

Poets are prodigies , so greatly rare ,
They seem the tasks of heav'n , and built with care.
Like suns unquench'd, unrival'd, and sublime,
They roll immortal, o'er the wastes of time:
Ages, in vain, close round , and snatch in fame,
High over all, still shines the Poet's name!
Lords of a life, that scorns the bounds of breath ,
They stretch existence — and awaken death .

Pride of their envy'd climes! they plant renown ,
That shades the monarch's , by the muse's crown:
To say, that Virgil , with Augustus shin'd,
Does honour to the lord of half mankind.

So, when three thousand years have wan'd away,
And Pope is said to've liv'd, when G EORGE bore sway;
Millions shall lend the king the poet's fame,
And bless, implicit, the supported name.