Classic Poem

How shall the Muse my Cynthia's Ear address,
Or paint the Graces of the peerless Maid?
When Color fails her Tincture to express,
And sick'ning Language lends a feeble Aid.

Fair is thy Form — but fairer is thy Mind,
Smooth flows thy Temper like yon marble Stream,
To prudent Affability inclin'd,
And Pity is the Subject of thy Theme.

When thou art thus presented to my View,
In Robes of native Delicacy drest,
Courteous, forgiving, generous, and true,
How dies Ambition in my peaceful Breast!

Give me but Cynthia , and yon humble Cot,
Where a few harmless Sheep are grazing round,
Far — — far before a Palace be my Lot,
If in the Palace Cynthia be not found.

How limited the Mind of soft Content!
The Calls of Nature but a Pittance crave,
Let us enjoy what Heav'n has kindly sent,
The Paths of Grandeur lead but to the Grave.

Ah! what is Life without the Joys of Love,
How heavily my Moments roll along!
Ye best can tell, ye Mansions of the Grove!
That nightly echo to my plaintive Song.

Hail happy Grove! where I was wont to stray
In social Converse with my Cynthia join'd,
Or idly pass the sultry Hours away,
Beneath your close-entwisted Shades reclin'd.

'Twas Friendship's Hand that was the only Guide
That led my Cynthia to your silent Bow'rs;
'Twas Friendship's Hand that innocently toy'd,
And grac'd her Bosom with your choicest Flow'rs.

'Twas Friendship call'd us to the purling Rill,
Where wispering Poplars on the Margin grow;
'Twas Friendship led us to the tow'ring Hill
To view the Landscape, and the Vales below.

But ah! too soon an unknown Passion grew,
Too soon I felt a pleasing-painful Smart;
The Goddess Friendship bid my Breast adieu,
And Tyrant-Love was Master of my Heart.

'Twas then fresh Beauties brighten'd on thy Face,
Each Limb with nicer Symmetry was wrought;
And too — too lovely was each finish'd Grace,
For Fancy's Pencil, or the Paint of Thought.

So fair thy Form — — so blooming to the Sight,
So kind the Languor of thy radiant Eye,
That Age beheld thee with a warm Delight,
And youthful Shepherds with an amorous Joy.

Witness ye Dryads of this sacred Grove,
How oft beneath your Oaks protending Arms,
I told my solitary Tales of Love,
And wearied Echo with my Cynthia's Charms.

'Twas then the Streams flow'd musical along,
'Twas then the Meadows wore a richer Bloom,
Each feather'd Warbler tun'd a sweeter Song,
And ev'ry Gale was loaded with Perfume.

But now no more I taste your luscious Sweets,
Ye chilly Grotto's! and ye roseate Bow'rs!
No more ye Groves! I traverse your Retreats,
To cull the choicest of your fragrant Flow'rs.

Far distant now from your sequester'd Shade,
No more I wander jocund o'er the Plain,
Harsh sounds the Chorus of the vocal Glade,
And Zephirs bear their balmy Stores in vain.

No more the fringed Bank of gurgling Rill,
The Forest waving from the Mountain's Height,
The Moss-grown Ruin, and the Heath-clad Hill,
Inspire the picturing Fancy with Delight.

Cans't thou then, Cynthia , doubt my Heart sincere,
Or Aught can lead my steddy Thoughts astray?
Or dost thou think my Bosom is severe,
And villainously wishes to betray?

Have I not oft with silent-rapturous Gaze
Spoke Confirmation how my Heart approv'd?
Hast thou not seen me in Confusion's Maze,
When my Tongue told thee faultering that I lov'd?

Tho' I was oft in pleasing Dalliance blest,
How diffident, and fearful to offend!
But oh! the secret Tumults of my Breast,
To center there where all its Wishes tend.

Come then, my Cynthia — fairest-dearest Maid!
No longer leave thy Shepherd in Despair:
Nor let the full-blown Rose of Beauty fade,
" And waste its Sweetness in the desert Air. "

Thus my fond Heart — — a Stranger to Repose —
Like a poor Bird, when hunted from her Nest,
In drooping Melancholy tells its Woes,
And hovers round its wonted Place of Rest.