Classic Poem

The partial Muse has from my earliest hours
Smiled on the rugged path I'm doomed to tread,
And still, with sportive hand, has snatched wild flowers
To weave fantastic garlands for my head;
But far, far happier is the lot of those
Who never learned her dear delusive art,
Which, while it decks the head with many a rose,
Reserves the thorn to fester in the heart.
For still she bids soft Pity's melting eye
Stream o'er the hills she knows not to remove —
Points every pang, and deepens every sigh
Of mourning friendship, or unhappy love.
Ah, then how dear the Muse's favours cost
If those paint sorrow best, who feel it most!