Classic Poem

Have I not seen each breath of spring
With greener health supply thee?
Have I not heard the whirlwind's wing
Sweep impotently by thee?

Nor midday blaze nor midnight chill
To fade thy bloom attempted;
And Jove's commission'd lightning still
Thy sacred stem exempted.

Yet now the bay-tree droops, around
Its classic foliage strewing —
And small, how small! the secret wound
That wrought such speedy ruin!

Long, by no open force oppress'd,
With time, with storms it wrestled;
It died — when in its verdant breast
One mining canker nestled!

So droops that pow'r, for whom its leaves
The wreath of glory braided;
Fancy, nor wound, nor shock receives,
By outward ills invaded.

Though scorn, or envy's keenest dart,
With vain attacks annoy her —
One hidden pang that gnaws the heart,
Is Fancy's sure destroyer!