On the Reed

I was of late a barren plant,
Useless, insignificant.
Nor fig, nor grape, nor apple bore,
A native of the marshy shore,
But gather'd for poetic use,
And plung'd into a sable juice,
Of which my modicum I sip,
With narrow mouth and slender lip,
At once, although by nature dumb,
All-eloquent I have become,
And speak with fluency untir'd,
As if by Phoebus' self inspir'd.