My First and Last Strophe

Dear friend! I had commenced the ' soaring ode ' —
But oh! I felt, despite thy flattering talk,
Like some poor sparrow, captured by a hawk,
And borne on alien wings from his abode
Beneath the sheltering eaves. It is an art —
Beyond my scope and pitch; I stare and pant
In this Pindaric clutch, and feel my want
Of force; henceforth I shall grow faint at heart
To see a falcon tower. Let lyrics be;
For, though I do not love to say thee nay,
For my poor muse it is too late a day
To mell with strophe and antistrophe;
When odes are paramount, 'tis best for me
To house and peep, lest I be swoop'd away.