Classic Poem

Thanks for thy little God of Love,
Dug from Pompeii — whose fate 'tis,
Henceforth to be install'd above
My household Lares and Penates

Oh! could its lips of bronze unclose,
How sad a tale might they recall!
How thrill us with th' appalling woes
Of the doom'd City's burial!

Perchance, on that benighted day
This tiny imp the table graced
Of one whose mansion might display
The choicest stores of classic taste.

Of some one whose convivial board
With all embellishments was deck'd,
While her rich cabinets outpour'd
A constant feast of Intellect —

Of one who, tho' she ne'er declined
In social chat to bear a part,
Loved more to fill her house and mind
With letter'd lore, and varied art. —

Of one who thus could give delight
To guests of every mental hue,
Whether unlearn'd or erudite, —
Of one, in short, resembling You!

To the dark tomb, thou Pagan Sprite!
For many centuries consign'd,
Thrice welcome to this world of light,
Where worshippers thou still wilt find. —

Methinks thy new abode is one
Thou wilt not, Cupid! disapprove,
For all my married life has run
A lengthen'd course of constant love. —

Prompt me, thou type of higher hope!
To spread that love from me and mine,
Until, in its ascending scope,
It soar to social and divine. —

So, little Elf! shalt thou be eyed
With double favour by thine owner,
Both as a tutelary guide,
And a memorial of thy donor. —