Classic Poem

Gentle Kitty take the lyre
Thy magic hands alone inspire!
But wake not once such swelling chords
As rouse Ambition's stormy lords,
Nor airs that jocund tabors play
To dancing youth in shades of May,
Nor songs that shake old Picton's tow'rs,
When feast and music blend their pow'rs!
But notes of mildest accent call,
Of plaintive touch and dying fall;
Notes, to which thy hand, thy tongue,
Thy every tender power is strung.—
Cambrian maid, repeat that strain!
Soothe my widow'd bosom's pain!
Its passions own thy melting tones;
Sighs succeed to bursting groans;
Soft and softer still they flow,
Breathing more of love than woe;
Glistening in my eye appears
A tenderer dew than bitter tears;
Springing hope despair beguiles,
And sadness softens into smiles.
I quit thy lyre—but still the train
Of sweet sensations warms my brain.
What? though social joy and love
Forget to haunt my sullen grove:
Though there my soul, a stagnant flood,
Nor flows its own or others good,
Emblem of yon faded flow'r,
That, chill'd by frost, expands no more:
The dreary scene yet sometimes closes,
When sleep inspires, on beds of roses,
Such dear delusions, fairy charms,
As Fancy dreams in Virtue's arms.
For see, a gracious form is near!
She comes to dry my falling tear:
One pious hand, in pity spread,
Supports my else unshelter'd head;
The other waves, to chase away
The spectres haunting all my day:
She calls—above, below, around,
Sweet fragrance breathes, sweet voices sound—
Such a balm to wounded minds,
Gentle Kitty, slumber finds;
Such a change is misery's due—
—Who wakes to grief should dream of you.