Friends of the Muse, to you of right belong The first staid footsteps of my square-toed song; Full well I know the strong heroic line Has lost its fashion since I made it mine; But there are tricks old singers will not learn, And this grave measure still must serve my turn, So the old bird resumes the self-same note His first young summer wakened in his throat; The self-same tune the old canary sings, And all unchanged the bobolink's carol rings; When the tired songsters of the day are still, The thrush repeats his long-remembered trill; Age alters not the crow's persistent caw, The Yankee's "Haow," the stammering Briton's "Haw;" And so the hand that takes the lyre for you Plays the old tune on strings that once were new, Nor let the rhymester of the hour deride The straight-backed measure with its stately stride; It gave the mighty voice of Dryden scope: It sheathed the steel-bright epigrams of Pope; In Goldsmith's verse it learned a sweeter strain, Byron and Campbell wore its clanking chain; I smile to listen while the critic's scorn Flouts the proud purple kings have nobly worn; Bid each new rhymer try his dainty skill And mould his frozen phrases as he will; We thank the artist for his neat device-- The shape is pleasing though the stuff is ice. Fashions will change--the new costume allures-- Unfading still the better type endures; While the slashed doublet of the cavalier Gave the old knight the pomp of chanticleer, Our last-hatched dandy with his glass and stick Recalls the semblance of a new-born chick (To match the model he is aiming at He ought to wear an eggshell for a hat), Which of these objects would a painter choose, And which Velasquez or Vandyke refuse? When your kind summons reached my calm retreat, Who are the friends, I questioned, I shall meet? Some in young manhood, shivering with desire To feel the genial warmth of Fortune's fire-- Each with his bellows ready in his hand To puff the flame just waiting to be fanned; Some heads half-silvered, some with snow-white hair; A crown ungarnished glistening here and there, The mimic moonlight gleaming on the scalps As evening's empress lights the shining Alps. But count the crowds that throng your festal scenes-- How few that knew the century in its teens! Save for the lingering handful fate befriends, Life's busy day the Sabbath decade ends; When that is over, how with what remains Of Nature's outfit--muscle, nerve and brains?