Classic Poem

FROM THE COUNTRY .

A T this late hour the world lies hush'd below,
Nor is one breath of air awake to blow:
Now walks mute Midnight darkling o'er the plain,
Rest and soft-footed Silence in his train,
To bless the cottage, and renew the swain.
These all-asleep, me all-awake, they find;
Nor rest nor silence charm the lover's mind.
Already I a thousand torments prove,
The thousand torments of divided love:
The rolling thought, impatient in the breast,
The fluttering wish on wing, that will not rest;
Desire, whose kindled flames, undying, glow,
Knowledge of distant bliss and present woe;
Unhush'd, unsleeping all, with me they dwell,
Children of absence, and of loving well.
These pale the cheek and cloud the cheerless eye,
Swell the swift tear, and heave the frequent sigh;
These reach the heart, and bid the health decline;
And these, O Mira! these are truly mine.
She whose sweet smile would gladden all the grove,
Whose mind is music, and whose looks are love;
She, gentle Pow'r! victorious softness! — she,
Mira! is far from hence, from love and me;
Yet in my ev'ry thought her form I find,
Her looks, her words — her world of charms combin'd!
Sweetness is her's, and unaffected ease,
The native wit, that was not taught to please.
Whatever softly animates the face,
The eye's attemper'd fire, the winning grace,
The' unstudied smile, the blush that nature warms,
And all the graceful negligence of charms!
Ha! while I gaze a thousand ardours rise,
And my fir'd bosom flashes from my eyes.
Oh! melting mildness! miracle of charms!
Receive my soul within those folding arms;
On that dear bosom let my wishes rest —
Oh! softer than the turtle's downy breast!
And see! where Love himself is waiting near;
Here let me ever dwell — for Heav'n is here!