Classic Poem

If Dante's ire, where'er he be, is moved,
To see conceits, by his high soul designed,
Laid open to the base and unrefined,
Wherewith thou hast my lectures' fault reproved;
'Twill grieve me much — nor e'er can be amoved.
From my own heart remorse and self-disdain —
And yet one thought might well-nigh soothe my pain —
The folly others, and not I, approved.
Besides vain hope, and poverty too true,
And partial friends, with judgment fondly blind
By prayers wrought on me, what I did, to do.
But little taste for wares of such a kind
Have the mechanical and envious crew
Who hate or scorn the loftiest works of mind.