Classic Poem

To books I gave my early days
In hopes to merit future praise,
Admir'd each bard and sage's name,
And fondly hop'd to share their fame.
In vain I wish'd and hop'd,—at last
The gay deceitful dream is past:
The generous labours of the Bard
Few heed, and fewer still reward:
Few prize the merits of the man,
But his defects the meanest scan.
Contemn'd by folly and by pride,
His feelings he but ill can hide,
And, conscious of his own desert,
Each wound sinks deeper in his heart.
Ev'n those, who own the poet's skill
Leave him a prey to ev'ry ill;
Delighted they peruse the lay,
But ne'er the price of pleasure pay.
Those finer feelings of the mind
Form'd to improve the human-kind,
Deny'd their exercise and food,
Prey on themselves in solitude,
And parts, which heav'n indulgent gave,
But sink their owner to the grave.
Then only, when the poet dies,
We learn his former worth to prize;
And, when neglect has caus'd his doom,
We lavish honours on his tomb.