Classic Poem

Ye fleeting forms, which Friendship's arms inclose,
From their warm circle quick ye glide away!
Scarce have we lov'd your image, ere we lose:
It stands, but while there's time to wish its stay.

Lamented objects of my lorn esteem!
Where are ye now, ye vanish'd visions, where?
Loose as the liquid texture of a dream,
Ye melted, from my mock'd embrace, to air!

To the fond sight but one short instant shown,
To be perceiv'd, approv'd, and disappear!
Strange apparitions! whither are ye flown?
For corp'ral, palpable, and warm ye were!

Ah! sure they were not empty shapes I knew,
But certain forms, that more than seem'd to be;
It was not air to which my bosom grew;
They were not phantoms I was wont to see.

I felt them substance; felt them fervent glow;
Saw speculation in their beaming eyes;
Heard from their lips life's mellow accent flow;
And mark'd, like mine, their human passions rise.

Yes, once they were: and are they nothing now?
Has all they were, for ever ceas'd to be?
No more do those fair minds with virtue glow,
That shed their virtuous beams no more on me?

Is living soul but one fleet moment lent?
And that which beats and THINKS in human kind,
But dust, whose wild and casual ferment
Shoots into fits of life, and starts of mind?

Are POWERS that feel, how fair is Nature's face;
This beauteous frame of things that curious scan?
Its various parts inspect, compare, and class;
And trace, through all, unerring Wisdom's plan;

Powers , not alone that what appears perceive,
That things unseen , by forceful inference, see;
Or, skill'd from nothing airy worlds to weave,
With potent call, can bid what is not be!

Powers , at the magic of whose rousing voice,
The past's relenting tomb what was restores!
The shades awake of long departed joys,
And Time gives back again his buried hours!

Are THESE but works of blindly labouring clay?
Wrought up, by chance, to reason's glorious light?
That, kindling to a flash of mental day,
With quick extinction, die again to night?

It is not so: they cannot be extinct:
Such sacred essence ne'er can shrink to nought:
Who boasts the power on moral themes to think,
O'er moral themes shall roll immortal thought.

Yes, ye, that, kept by Memory's wondrous skill,
So firm in her retentive tablet stay,
As firmly fixt abide in being still;
Fram'd to endure, ye ne'er shall pass away.

'Tis not alone your lov'd ideas wear,
Warm in this heart, their colours undecay'd;
Preserv'd by Heav'n with corresponding care,
Ye hold, yourselves, a bloom that shall not fade.

To this fair hope my trusting bosom clings:
Nought from its hold shall wrench my fast belief;
For sweet the balm, the bleeding heart it brings,
When Friendship's tomb inspires the virtuous grief.