Classic Poem

Oh ye with Virtue's deathless roses crowned,
Yet unseduced by Pleasure's fatal wiles;
Whom ease, whom affluence, and peace surround,
Who bask, unknown to pain, in Fortune's smiles!

Let not the pride that conscious worth imparts
Too fiercely triumph o'er Misfortune's child,
Whom practised Vice, with toils and oft-tried arts,
Of Innocence and Honour hath beguiled.

Ye who 'midst groves and peaceful shades pursue
The calm and even tenor of your way,
Know ye with what fell wiles the Siren crew,
The fiends of pleasure, study to betray?

Oh were their honied treacheries but known!
Not always would their victims meet your scorn;
Not always would your swelling hearts disdain
The sigh of pity for a mind forlorn.

And some there are whom now, though sunny skies
Gild with unchanging splendour, whom though flowers
Of thornless bliss encompass, while life flies,
In scenes of joy o'er which no tempest lowers,

Yet know they, by some dear escape well taught,
How hard it is to walk the perilous way,
With seeming bliss and deadly pleasures fraught,
Where Ruin lurks, close ambushed, for his prey.

Shall these then, all forgetful of the wiles
Themselves have learned, yet hardly learned, to shun,
Go forth elate, and turn with scornful smiles
From the poor wretch by villany undone!

If such there are, so lost to generous shame,
If thus with savage pride their bosoms swell,
If those who from the fight with danger came
Exult o'er one that in the conflict fell;

Shame be their fated portion; may they drain
Down to the deepest dregs the cup of woe;
Long may their hearts be schooled in grief and pain,
Till, from their own, another's pangs they know!

Oh, Charity! our first best pride; assigned
The surest aid to which the wretched fly;
Whose holy influence softens the rude mind,
And man to man unites with happiest tie!

How blest are they who, touched by thy mild beam,
A brother's faults with pitying eyes behold,
Who spurn not those whom Pleasure's eddying stream
Hath born from Virtue's long-regretted fold!

Oft from Remorse, from Sorrow's bitter pangs,
Thy hand hath rescued one whom the hard world,
Heedless of deep contrition, or the fangs
Of Vice, and Horror, and Despair hath hurled.

Where but with thee, when anguish tears the mind,
When on the soul the scorpion Conscience feeds,
Where shall the undone mourner hope to find
The healing balm her wounded spirit needs?

When Pride, when Scorn, and Mockery assail,
When Shame, when Infamy, and Want surround,
When thoughts of darkness o'er the mind prevail,
Where, but with thee, shall long-sought Peace be found?

Ye who lie lapt in downy ease and pride,
Scoff not at this my seeming idle strain;
Nor yet the moral of my verse deride,
A little while from ridicule refrain.

Short is the time since, blest in Virtue's bloom,
A beauteous maid by Cherwell's margin strayed;
Peace crowned her hours; no dark no chilling gloom
Rose o'er her morn of life with envious shade;

Hers was the charm from Music's power that flows,
Hers was divinest Poesy's free strain,
The soul sincere, the ardent mind, that glows
With others' joys, that feels another's pain.

How blest the youth whose fond hopes might aspire
To call this bright perfection all his own!
Oh, how accurst if his unhallowed fire
Could breathe a wish that Virtue might disown!

Yet one there was, whose proud hopes might aspire
To call this bright perfection all his own;
One too, who, burning with unhallowed fire,
Could form a wish that Virtue might disown.

Her aged parents saw the growing flame,
Saw, and approved, unheeding, and secure;
What now is wanting but the bridal name
To crown with bliss a love so seeming pure?

Fair Maid! the bridal name shall soon be thine,
Soon holiest ties shall bind the mutual vow;
Soon the companions of thy youth shall twine
The promised wreath to deck thy polished brow.

But whence, fair Maid, that clouded front, that sigh,
Ah, whence those tears, that look so fraught with woe?
What power hath quenched the lustre of thine eye,
And banished from thy cheek its wonted glow?

Fled is the Maid. . . . . . . .O'er Charwell's willowy edge
Curl the grey mists of eve....And now the blast
Sweeps o'er the stream, and shakes the tossing sedge,
And o'er the waters Night's dark veil hath passed.

Whose was that mournful voice that with the gale
Mingled its loud lament? that faint and low
Now breathes again in murmurs, like the wail
Of some poor wretch that moans foredone with woe!

What is yon form on which a transient gleam
Shines faintly, gleaming through the gloom of night?
Now all is dark....and now the moon's full beam
Clothes it in all the lustre of soft light.

I see a female form....her robe is white,
Her robe, her tresses tremble in the gale;
Wildly she waves her white arm to the night,
The moon-beam dwells upon her face so pale.

Is that the maid who, blest in Virtue's bloom,
Who, blest in peace, by Cherwell's margin strayed?
Is that the maid for whom no chilling gloom
Rose o'er her morn of life with envious shade?

And hark! " Ah, wretch! " she cries, " to peace how lost!
Ruined, undone, from every pleasure torn,
Thou curse to those dear friends who prized thee most,
How canst thou meet their eyes, how meet their scorn!

Where canst thou shun the penetrating eye!
Where shun the blaze of guilt-exposing day!
How shield thee from impending misery,
Bereft of Innocence's cheering ray!

How was I wont to hail the breezy morn,
How swelled my heart when Nature's countless charms
Spoke to my soul! Ah, then no rankling thorn
Tortured my breast; my soul had no alarms.

But now I fly to night's congenial shades,
To hide my shame, my sorrows from the light;
Yet Shame pursues me through the darkest glades,
And Conscience sleeps not in the thickest night.

I think each passing breeze repeats my name;
And hark! the boding night-bird screams aloud;
His voice is terror. Oh how guilt and shame
Shrink from each breeze, and fear each passing cloud!

And thou, oh faithless! couldst thou talk of truth,
Of love, of faith, and flatter to destroy;
And couldst thou rob my unsuspecting youth
Of honour, peace, and each attendant joy!

I knelt....A parent spurned me from his feet,
And drove me forth to want and infamy....
I merit this....but not that thou shouldst treat
With scorn that wretch whose fault was love of thee.

The night-blast howls.....Onward the black clouds roll,
Darkening the moon-beam with their sullen gloom;
These horrors suit the temper of my soul....
Faithless, adieu! I find a watery tomb. "

'Tis still as Death....But hark! the sounding stream
Gives token where she plunged...Dimly descried,
On the dark wave with faint and transient gleam
Sparkles the foam; then still the waters glide.