Classic Poem

Emillia, thou art far away,
And languid creep the vacant hours;
Yet, when the last mild Evening chas'd,
With yellow light, the recent Showers,

Their wonted path my slow steps found
The green, and shady Lanes along,
That wind around the sylvan cot,
The cot, with ivy curtains hung.

Soft setting Sun-beams gently glanc'd
O'er the young leaves a sweet farewell;
But ah! to these delightless eyes
How vacant seem'd the bloomy cell!

Tho' gilded by so mild a light,
Tho' linnets warbled in the gale,
A lone, and wintry air it wore,
And Silence seem'd to shroud the Vale.

Thy little, faithful Dog I met,
Saw him the circling Lanes explore,
Rush down the glades, then up the steps
Spring to thy clos'd, and silent door.

With eager look, and plaintive whine,
Snuff thro' each chink the passing air;
Ah! little wretch, I mournful cried,
Thy lovely mistress is not there!

Slow he walk'd away, and hung
His sullen head, and nothing car'd
How oft I call'd, to tempt his stay,
And sooth the peevish grief I shar'd.

He left me near the silent Door,
No more half open'd to thy Friend,
When dull the clouds of Evening lour,
And fast her heavy dews descend;

Or drizzling rains, that often weep,
When winds no longer bend the spray,
The moist, and early vanish'd Sun,
That shrinks from April's wayward Day.

Now in that little hall's dear grate
No social embers glow the while,
To us so kindly to disclose
The mutual glance, the tender smile.

Protecting Walls! Asylum blest
From every influence unkind!
The rigor of inclement skies,
The rigor of th' unfeeling mind.

From Pride, and Avarice' taunting sneer,
Authority's still dreaded frown,
Whose chidings loud the gentle voice
Of Love's persuasive pleadings drown.

That sylvan cottage is thine own,
A tender mother's kind bequest,
Far from thy haughty Father's power,
'Twill give us shelter, food, and rest.

Till that was thine, thou know'st full well
I pleaded 'gainst my self to thee,
Opposing the too generous love,
That dar'd the last distress for me.

But now, that shelter, food, and rest
May meet us in the silent bower,
Come to these faithful, longing arms,
And scorn the curbs of Pride and Power!

The busy, bustling haunts of Men
Thy Lover shall, for thee, resign;
For us the Winter's hearth shall glow;
For us the Summer Sun will shine.

The great Ones court thee for their Bride;
With thee, in ceremonial glare,
They wou'd the pomps of Life divide,
For that the world proclaims thee fair.

Ah, it is vanity , not love ,
That bids them seek thy matchless charms,
But Love alone, and love like mine
Deserves the heaven that's in thine arms.

But can that soft, that yielding soul
It's generous warfare long maintain,
Defy constraint, and haste to seek
The shelter of these arms again?

O! yes, while Memory's power remains,
Her glowing images shall prove
The unsubdu'd, and constant Guards
When Force wou'd disunite our love.