Classic Poem

Thou nymph satirick, for a nymph thou art,
Whose varying lyre, like thy once doubtful sex,
Can with its tones the nicest ear perplex,
And numb with wonder the still pondering heart!

Thou, whom Menander joys to call a nymph,
Whose lips have freely quaffed the sacred lymph;
Who erst, in sweet Eliza's lovely guise,
Didst bless the vision of these mental eyes.

Thou injured maid, to gain whose secret name,
Intent I've listened with arrected ear;
Patrolled the whispering gallery of Fame,
And walked the watch-tower of the winds to hear!

Thou injured maid, to thee this verse belongs:
The lyre, that caused, shall expiate thy wrongs!

When first the soft Eliza tuned her lyre,
In notes, the pathos of whose dulcet swell
Might charm a Zeno with its potent spell,
And the fond passion, which she felt, inspire;

Enamoured Pride, from Fancy's hill-top, heard
The softened musick of the fluttering strain;
While Echo, prattling like the human bird,
Rechanting, chanted every note again.

But Judgment, wrinkled with a frown severe,
Checked the young rapture, which thy lays inspired;
Though Hope's pleased eye the page proscribed admired,
And shed upon the sweet forbidden fruit a tear.

Weak Jealousy outspread her saffron wing,
And, through the infection of the jaundiced hue,
Saw from Eliza's garb a monster spring,
In voice a Circe, and in poison too:

A magick chantress, from whose Hyblean tongue,
While fell the honied melody of praise,
Alas! impervious to the soul's fixed gaze,
A vocal death from every note she flung!