Classic Poem

To thee, oh master of each comic power!
To thee, on whom life beams a sun-ting'd hour;
To whom its closing shades new pleasures bring,
And makes thee feel those joys thou lov'st to sing;

Well may life's varied page to thee appear
A stainless page, unblotted with a tear:
But ah! no joys like thine my fate attend,
Still absent from each dear and friend;

E'en now, ere nineteen circling summers shed,
Their glowing honours o'er my youthful head;
Wearied with conflicts, and with life opprest,
I fain would fly away and be at rest! Yet tho' without one real joy I live,
Ideal bliss the Muse and Fancy bring!