Classic Poem

O! Thou , whose placid bosom never felt
“The hope deferr'd, which maketh sick the heart,”
Whose feelings, yet unwounded, only melt
At woes where soft Compassion bears a part,
O! court not yet the soft poetic art!
Alas! from Friendship unreturn'd,
From slighted Love, or Sorrow's canker'd dart,
Too oft the Poet's flame at first has burn'd:
For few the laurels which the Muse bestows,
Of no sad cares, no hours of anguish born:
As few can scent the fragrance of the rose,
Nor feel the sharpness of its neighb'ring thorn:
And foreign trees their balmy gums produce,
But first receive the wound whence flows the fragrant juice.