Classic Poem

Two children of the olden time,
In Flora's primrose season,
Were born. The name of one was Rhyme
That of the other Reason.
And both were beautiful and fair,
And pure as mountain stream and air.

As the boys together grew,
Happy fled their hours —
Grief or care they never knew
In the Paphian bowers.
See them roaming, hand in hand,
The pride of all the choral band!

Music with harp of golden strings,
Love with bow and quiver,
Airy sprites on radiant wings,
Nymphs of wood and river,
Joined the Muses' constant song,
As Rhyme and Reason passed along.

But the scene was changed — the boys
Left their native soil —
Rhyme's pursuit was idle joys,
Reason's manly toil:
Soon Rhyme was starving in a ditch,
While Reason grew exceeding rich.

Since the dark and fatal hour,
When the brothers parted,
Reason has had wealth and power —
Rhyme's poor and broken-hearted!
And now, or bright or stormy weather,
They twain are seldom seen together.