Classic Poem

Yon Sun that on the Mountain gleams,
And faintly chears me with his Beams,
Ere long will vanish from my View,
And bid the slumbering World adieu,
Whilst Darkness with her pitchy Robe
Will silently enwrap the Globe:
Hence Nature, with the closing Day,
Ceases her Beauties to display,
In dewy Tears laments her Fate,
And mourns as in a widow'd State —
The painted Flow'rs that deck the Meads,
Enclose their Sweets, and bow their Heads,
The checquer'd Scene, the vernal Bloom,
Is lost amidst the twilight Gloom,
And not a Songster tunes his Lay
To sooth the Pilgrim on his Way,
Save Philomel , with plaintive Strain,
Warbles to mitigate her Pain,
And strikes the list'ning Ear of Night
With sweet — but dolorous Delight.

So Anna when she left this Clime,
To range beyond the Bounds of Time,
Left my poor Heart with Grief opprest,
And scatter'd Darkness through my Breast;
And not alone my Heart was mov'd,
A thousand Hearts rever'd, and lov'd: —
Each Swain beheld with raptur'd Eyes,
Her fair meridian Glories rise,
And wept the dear Enchantress gone,
As Nature weeps the setting Sun.

One hapless Swain — a plighted Youth
Of sacred Love, of sacred Truth,
When Anna fled, forsook this Strand,
And weeps her in a foreign Land;
Methinks I see his down-cast Eye,
Methinks I hear his deep-fetch'd Sigh,
As pensive by the mournful Grove,
He pours these Strains of genuine Love.
" Ah! what avails that ev'ry Grace
" Adorns the Virgin's splendid Face?
" That Nature, with intent to please,
" Forms her with Elegance and Ease?
" Since pallid Sickness may surprize,
" And Death obscure the brightest Eyes —
" Since thou, my Anna , art away,
" How tedious flies the dreary Day!
" For thou wast Life, and Light to me ,
" Vain shines the Sun that shews not thee."
Dear Fellow-Mourner! — hapless Youth! —
Great was thy Love, and great thy Truth;
Great was thy Grief — but greater sure
A Brother's Bosom must endure,
Hence Tears for ever — ever flow —
— Tears of unutterable Woe!
The languid Flow'rs of Fancy fade,
The Heart-felt Rapture is decay'd,
Sadness sits brooding on my Soul,
And heavily my Moments roll;
No genial Comforts intervene,
To chear me thro' the darksome Scene,
Save that the fluttering-feeble Muse,
A transient Succour can infuse,
When Midnight's sable Horrors reign,
And Silence rests upon the Plain.
Oh! cou'd my Voice, with Notes divine,
Warble, sweet Philomel , like thine,
Or cou'd I, Anna , catch the Lay
That harmoniz'd thy closing Day,
When Angels (to whom Charge was giv'n
To bear thee to the Joys of Heav'n,)
Bid thy departing Soul aspire
In Strains symphonious to their Choir,
Where kindred Seraphs grateful sing
Eternal Praises to their King,
And hail blest Spirits to the Shore,
Where Pain shall never wound them more.
Oh! cou'd my Voice, with Notes divine,
Warble in Unison with thine,
Thy Praise, my Anna , shou'd arise,
Above the Earth, and reach the Skies,
Upon the Wings of Fame shou'd fly,
And, like thy Virtue — never die.