Classic Poem

Success makes people vain.—The maxim's true,
We all confess it—and not over now.
The veriest clown who stumps along the streets,
And doffs his hat to each grave cit he meets,
Some twelvemonths hence, bedaub'd with livery lace,
Shall thrust his saucy flambeau in your face.
Not so our bard: tho' twice your kind applause
Has, on this fickle spot, espous'd his cause:
He owns, with gratitude, th' obliging debt;
Has twice been favour'd, and is modest yet.
Plain tragedy, his first adventurous care,
Spoke to your hearts, and found an echo there.
Plain comedy to-night, with strokes refin'd,
Would catch the coyest features of the mind:
Would play politely with your hopes and fears,
And sometimes smiles provoke, and sometimes tears.
Your giant wits, like those of old, may climb
Olympus high, and step o'er space and time;
May stride, with seven-leagu'd boots, from shore to shore,
And, nobly by transgressing, charm you more.
Alas! our author dares not laugh at schools,
Plain sense confines his humbler Muse to rules.
Form'd on the classic scale his structures rise,
He shifts on scenes to dazzle and surprize.
In one poor garden's solitary grove,
Like the primæval pair, his lovers rove.
And in due time will each transaction pass,
—Unless some hasty critic shakes the glass.