Classic Poem

Dear sir, — It happen'd on a time —
Hard fate — I caught the itch of rhime,
And treating with too much neglect,
Now late I rue the dire effect,
Which over grown for want of care,
Distracts my mind beyond compare;
And close connections still we find,
Between the body and the mind.

For instance — when the body's vext,
With some strange malady perplext,
The mind immediate takes a share,
Alternate rent with grief and care:
And versa — when the mind declines,
With love, or four misfortune pines,
The body's vigour then decreases;
And now I hope I've prov'd my thesis,

But what's all this (you'll say, to me)
Whose mind and body both agree?
Whose fortune is, thank Heaven, such
Not poorly low, nor yet too much,
Beneath the envy of the great,
Yet far above a servile state;
With useful arts I spend my time,
A Lover — tho' no slave to rhime.
Alas! dear B — — that's the case,
All void of reason as of grace;
" As yet a youth no fool to fame,
Not dreaming of a poet's name,
I lisp'd in verse — my friends approv'd,
And what they prais'd too soon I lov'd. "
Hence springs my grief: with care I trac'd
Those poets by the muses grac'd,
With all their smiles; — and idly vain,
A slave at distance in their train;
Neglected bus'ness, void of care,
Cameleon like to feed on air.
I trac'd the fields, the groves, and bowers,
Made nosegays of poetic flowers;
Yet better for myself the treat,
Had I made nosegays in the street;
For then each passing Beau and Belle
Would know my Posies made to sell:
And from their bounteous hand I might,
Perhaps, have got a dinner by't:
Yet I had other views confest
Within this castle building breast.
By Fancy's aid I mount the wind,
And leave this drossy world behind:
There pictur'd to the mental eye,
Strange lands, and manners I desery.
A plenteous harvest too was shewn,
The crop in time to be my own.
Yet this estate I never found
Exist, but on poetic ground.

Now sprung with years my hope of fame,
The pictur'd front, the deathless name;
And fancy with a Syren smile,
Could still my foolish heart beguile;
'Till the blown bubble seeming fair,
By some rude touch dissolv'd in air.

So fares it with the chimic blade,
Who thinks gold may, by art, be made:
And bouy'd with thoughts of endless pelf,
Continues to deceive himself.
With every care the fire is made,
The egg in proper order laid;
Impatience, flow-pac'd time derides —
How heavy every moment glides!
Worn out with care he scarce survives,
When lo! the happy day arrives;
When oh! confusion — — hark! it bursts,
And all is lost in fume and dust.
His care, his art, are all in vain,
His Folly known is all his gain.