Classic Poem

DECEMBER , 1808.

Oh leave, dear Moore, oh leave awhile
The green hills of your native isle!
But come not with your seraph lyre,
Your Muse of joy, your soul of fire;
Not e'en your strains could charm away
The fiends which on my senses prey;
Fiends, not with burning sulphur nurs'd,
But from Hell's chillest winter burst;
Fiends, who their icy jav'lins dart,
At once to pierce and freeze the heart!
The storms which shook my summer days
Slept to the music of your lays;
The snow-blast of this wintry sky
Hears not the Halcyon's lullaby.
Come, then, with mightier succours fraught,
Your shield of philosophic thought,
Best panoply when care invades,
To lighten my unchequer'd shades
Bring me each day-diffusing gem,
Which beams in Reason's diadem,
For sov'reign Reason lends to you
Her armour and regalia too.
The triflers think your varied powers
Made only for life's gala bowers,
To smooth Reflection's mentor-frown,
Or pillow joy on softer down. —
Fools! — yon blest orb not only glows
To chase the cloud, or paint the rose;
These are the pastimes of his might;
Earth's torpid bosom drinks his light —
Find there his wondrous pow'r's true measure,
Death turn'd to life, and dross to treasure!