Classic Poem

If, on the tow'ring Alps ' amazing height,
Whose cliffy tops our climbing eyes affright,
And, with chill horror, strike the startled sight,
If, there, Celinda , thou had'st chanc'd to be
The piny product of some teeming tree;
Tasteless, of human pity, might'st thou grow,
And, forc'd to bend, when ruffling tempests blow,
Nod, angry, at the plains, that spread, below.
Ev'n pines, and oaks, can bend to stones, and be
More flexible, than thy strong hate, to me!
The greedy ocean, whose insatiate waves
Flow, to devour; whose smoothest smiles are graves;
Of all its monstrous forms, has none so cold,
Nor does one rock, in its vast bosom, hold,
That, had it sense, such cruelty would show,
To triumph, in the shipwreck'd sailor's woe:
Nothing, in nature, does, so fix'd, remain,
But love's soft fire can gradual entrance gain,
And all, but thee, once lov'd, will love again.