Classic Poem

Sick of a worthless world , and courting rest ,
My sullen soul , with pensive weight , opprest;
Disturb'd, and mournful, sought the silent shade,
And fed reflection , in the breezy glade.
Stretch'd on the grassy margent of a brook ,
Whose murm'ring fellowship my mind partook;
Actively idle, I, repining, lay,
Gaz'd on the flood , and sigh'd the stream away.

Who knows, I cry'd, what course thou hast to pass,
Sweet stream , that now creepst softly through this grass?
How wilt thou flow! — Anon, perhaps, slid hence,
Thy deep'ning channel fills some moated fence,
Hems in some farm , where homely rusticks meet,
And their sweet bread, prize of hard labour, eat.
Thence, thro' some lord's delightful garden, led,
Thou may'st thy vegetative influence spread;
Where, as thro' fragrant beds , thy purlings slide,
The grateful flow'rs shall kiss 'em, as they glide:
There, charm'd, and ling'ring, thou may'st with to stay,
And, hoarsely murm'ring, roll, displeas'd, away.

But, while, with careless pace, thou journey'st slow,
Oft halting, to look back, at this fair show ,
Some precipice , that, in close ambush , lies,
Thy virgin current shall, at once, surprize,
Cross whose broad shoulders thrown, and tumbling o'er,
Thy frighted stream shall rush, with unavailing roar.
Next, may thy silver current's brightness die,
And muddily, some stagnate fen supply;
Where shadow'd reeds , in thy slow stream, shall shake,
And floods fly, trembling, from the gloom, they make:
Frighted, and glad to 'scape this horrid place,
Thou may'st wind short, and new-direct thy race,
Through verdant meads , o'erjoy'd may'st, dancing, go,
'Till cattle sip thy whirlpools, as they flow:
Thence, for protection of thy ruffled charms,
Thou may'st rush swift, to some great lover's arms ;
Some stately stream , by keely courtship prest,
And mark'd, with wealth's proud furrows, on his breast:
Grave Thames may, next, receive thy mix'd embrace,
And fam'd Augusta see thy sully'd face;
From her wash'd foot, thy scatter'd flood may stray,
And, to the swallowing ocean , roll away:
There, wasted stream! in wind-driv'n billows tost,
Thy oft-chang'd being shall be wholly lost .

So, gentle brook , I cry'd, does human life ,
'Midst endless changes, and in endless strife ,
Glide, with impatience , thro' unknown events ,
'Till nature asks repose, and death consents.

Why then is such a life so much desir'd?
By what pursuits, is vain ambition fir'd?
Friendship is lost, on earth ; love goes astray;
And men , like beasts , each on the other prey:
Ev'n the soft sex their downy bosoms hide,
With inward artifice , or outward pride .
Beauty's spoil'd shafts no more the soul can hit ,
Dull'd, by gross folly , or misguided wit .
Nothing is, now, worth wishing for, on earth ,
And death is grown a much less woe , than birth .

While thus I mourn'd — back roll'd th' astonish'd brook ,
The trees bow'd down, the earth , beneath me, shook!
All heav'n descended to the glowing ground,
And radiant terror , dazzling, shone around:
Blind , with the strong refulgence , fix'd, I lay,
Bury'd, in brightness , and o'erwhelm'd, with day .
Listen, a sound broke out — impatient youth!
Listen, and mark the voice of sacred truth .
Rouz'd, at that name , I would have bless'd my sight ,
But strove, in vain, to stem the tide of light ;
Still, as I rais'd my eyes , their balls struck fire ,
And wat'ry gushings wept the rash desire :
The unseen phantom's voice, sudden, and loud,
Startled the ear , as thunder rends a cloud ;
But soft'ning more and more, grew sweet, and kind,
And dy'd away, like musick , in the wind :
I come, continues she, to bring thee peace ,
To bid thy diffidence , in friendship cease;
Again, to reconcile thee to mankind ,
New-wing thy transports , and un-clog thy mind ;
To guide thy wand'ring choice, to find that joy,
Distrust of which, does thy sad hours employ:
There lives a charmer , whom, divinely fir'd,
E'en her whole sex's virtues have inspir'd;
Where all that's manly , joins with all that's sweet ,
And, in whose breast , engross'd perfections meet;
Her mind no conscious pride of merit stains;
O'er her wide soul , unsully'd reason reigns:
Blind to her worth , she feels not her own flame ,
Enriches merit , yet despises fame .
Her unaffected charms , what words can paint ?
She looks an engel , and she speaks a saint!
While sparkling gayness , wantons in her eye ,
In her wise soul , the laughing Cupids die.
A thousand graces round her person play,
And all the muses mark her fancy's way:
To hear her speak , the soul, with rapture fills,
Her looks alarm — but, when she writes, she kills .
Rise, then, and meet her, as she this way strays,
And thy own wonder shall out-speak my praise .

The goddess vanish'd to her native skies ,
And the recover'd shade unbarr'd my eyes ;
I look'd, and lo! within the honour'd wood ,
Lovely Cleora , hid, in bay-leaves, stood;
Cleora — but her wonders to reveal,
Were to describe, what I can only feel!
Now, reconcil'd to the shun'd world , I'll live:
Her friendship — joys, worth living for, can give.