Classic Poem

I had S HAKESPEARE one day in my hand, and mischief in my heart. — I wrote the following as a ridicule upon those who admired even his quaintness of expression.

Droplets of Melancholy's native brine!
Enforcedly , oh castigate my youth,
Lest it should mischief me, and grave itself
In its own 'witching empiry; give eyes,
And the high-vic'd beweep regardfully.
They woo the rivage, when their shatter'd bark
In its dear peril hath no means defendant
Against the turb'lent sea's embossed froth
And mountant billows, when the Night makes ' road
Upon the Sun's pale relicks, and with crescive
Influence i' th' sternage of the day presides,
Neighbour'd with its defunction; to surprize
The rampar'd gates betray'd, and boundless rage
Arming the savagery o' th' trenchant blade,
Whose boot enslumbering suspect hath cowarded
The valiant'st nature; — take me to thy arms
I' th' May -morn of the year, pale Solitude,
But teach o' th' mind's distemperature, enround
And girdle-in my thoughts! chain me to th' rock
That juttys the wild Ocean, or in caves
Hide me with Morpheus' train, thy pensioners,
That page thy ebon state, and at thy hist
Waft on their batty wings to th' clos'd eye.
Shapes of the air, or spirits of the deep,
Time's course outstripping, and portending oft,
Or by monition sage averting evils,
Ere yet the mistful embryos have life
In Fate's dark cell immur'd.