Classic Poem

In Sixteen Hundred Sixty-eight,
A year of most important weight,
A solemn council Jove ordained,
Where all the pow'rs of heav'n convened.
High raised on his imperial throne,
In robes of majesty he shone
(Such was the wondrous light displayed,
When first the beauteous world he made).

" Ye Gods and Goddesses, " said he,
In sounds becoming his decree,
" Be silent all, and all attend,
And hear the work I recommend:
A child's new-born — let's change his fate,
And make him every way complete.

" Whilom we did a woman grace
With gifts above a mortal race,
But what marred all — she was designed
To plague and punish all mankind;
But let us now ordain this birth
To polish and refine the earth.
Smile all upon the new-born boy;
Send mirth and wit and love and joy;
Eternal funds of these bestow him,
That all may love and learn who know him;
Let every one confer their gift,
And all distinguished be in Swift. "

Apollo straight assumed his lyre,
His soul with music to inspire,
But struck too eagerly the strings;
With too much violence he sings,
For all around he shook the spheres
And stunned the tender infant's ears.
Since that, when harp or fiddles play,
He stops his ears or turns away;
But still the soul of sound remains
In easy numbers, easy strains,
That all who read his verse may find
The God of music formed his mind.

The Muses joy'd to see this day,
Flew down from heav'n to sport and play;
Around his head in wanton rings,
They fly with wide expanded wings;
Sometimes they skim in level flights
To teach him smoothness when he writes;
Again on lofty wings they rise
To raise his poems to the skies,
That though he were confined to rhyme,
He still might keep the true sublime.
Then as a token of their love,
Before they re-ascend to Jove,
Each from her wing bestowed a quill:
No less could serve for so much skill,
For so much art — nor wonder then
There's so much magic in his pen.

Jove's daughter next beheld the child;
With highest influence on him smiled,
That Reason, firm and clear and strong,
To him as native right belong.
Others with art dispute and plead;
He scorns the help of foreign aid,
For all his reas'ning is his own,
And logic falls before his throne.

Venus advanced with her soft train,
Would make him amorous in vain;
No worthy object can he find
But the great beauty of the mind.

Jove's gift was this — from him it came
Immortal as the vestal flame —
That his affection knows no end;
No change can be where he's a friend.
Others desert when danger's nigh,
The tempest and the thunder fly,
And shrink to see a rocky shore,
But danger makes him love you more.

Hermes, with soft persuasion, strung
The well-tuned fibres of his tongue;
Hence he confutes with so much ease,
And conquers with an art to please.

O would the Fates but make it mine,
Like thee to live, like thee to shine;
The least perfection men would see
In me would be my quality.
You know the councils of the great;
You know to form the Man of State;
Teach me, though young, to be a man;
Make me a Cart'ret, if you can.