Classic Poem

As one who 'midst a choir alone doth sing,
When voices harsh fill all his soul with pain,
So that from even a note he would refrain,
And flee away as with a dove's swift wing,
Yet for Religion's sake you see him stay,
And try to raise her service what he may; —
So doth the Poet live amidst his age!
Though at the first his lyre he scarce can hear,
He does not drown its discords in his rage,
Nor fly where they will not offend his ear;
But for their very sakes who spoil his songs,
His heaven-taught strain he more and more prolongs;
Till one by one they with his paean blend,
And all in one harmonious concert end.