Classic Poem

Thou gentle Orb! whose mild benignant light,
Softens the gloomy empire of the Night,
As Mercy decks the face of rigid pow'r!—
Oh thou! that rul'st soft Contemplation's hour,
Soothing each boist'rous passion into rest,
While Nature glimmers by thy spangled vest;
To thee, sweet Moon! has oft the wretch complain'd,
And oft the silent tear has been explain'd.
Forsaken by the world—forbid to die!
On thee Affliction turns its mournful eye;
The heart exhibits all its secret store,
And many a fatal wound is counted o'er,
And many an anxious pang returns again,
And many a soft connexion form'd in vain:
Indulgent Mem'ry yields, with partial care,
A rich luxuriant banquet for Despair!
Thy peaceful, solemn light, even then can charm—
Despair can sooth, and almost Rage disarm.
Each generous feeling seems awak'd by thee,
And the mind springs to nobler objects free!
—No practis'd traitor e'er consults thy ray,
His specious varnish needs the blaze of day;
Thy penetrating light his soul confounds,
Opens her depth, and searches all her wounds:
He seeks in vain the bright delusive dream,
Nor boasts, with secret pride, his glorious scheme;
For sacred Truth asserts her injur'd claim,
And blasts his prospect with eternal shame!
—Thy holy beam, no wretch like this invites,
But suff'ring worth, and hopeless Love delights.
To thee, in some remote and gloomy shade,
The soft effusions of the heart are paid!
Or by some chrystal stream, which gently creeps;
Whilst thy pure image in its bosom sleeps;
Then plaintive Philomel resumes her song—
She sings not for the rude impetuous throng,
She sings not for the gay, the proud to hear,
But softly steals on Contemplation's ear!
The sighing swain whom Care has taught to roth
Finds in her lay the tender note of Love;
He seeks the shade, with slow and languid pace,
When radiant Phœbus hides his glowing face;
Then he bewails his fate and feeds his pain,
Condemned, perhaps, to love whole years in vain;
Perhaps some thoughtless, or dissembling fair,
Who fann'd his hopes to quench them in despair
Perhaps some FRIEND , with deep insiduous art,
Obtain'd the treasure of his honest heart!—
How many ills, alas! may Virtue know,
A sad and strange variety of woe!
But he who suff'ring, keeps his conscience pure,
The best may hope, and even the worst endure!
He can enjoy the dark and silent hour,
When conscious Innocence exerts her pow'r!—

Oh sweet Security! thy matchless worth,
Exceeds the transitory joys of Earth;
And he who yields thee for a short-liv'd bliss,
Shall find his error in an hour like this!