Classic Poem

The simple swain, where Zembla's snows
Are bound in frozen chains,
Where scarce a smile the sun bestows
To warm the sullen plains;
Not once conceives that sun to rise
With kinder, brighter ray;
Nor southern vales, Hesperian skies,
To bask in smiling day.

As weak my thoughts respecting thee:
Must thou, my better sun,
Because but smiling cold on me,
Be therefore warm to none?