Classic Poem

Return , blest years! when not the jocund Spring,
Luxuriant Summer, nor the amber hours
Calm Autumn gives, my heart invoked, to bring
Joys, whose rich balm o'er all the bosom pours;
When ne'er I wish'd might grace the closing day,
One tint purpureal, or one golden ray;
When the loud storms, that desolate the bowers,
Found dearer welcome than Favonian gales,
And Winter's bare, bleak fields than Summer's flowery vales.

Yet not to deck pale hours with vain parade,
Beneath the blaze of wide-illumined dome;
Not for the bounding dance; — not to pervade
And charm the sense with music; — nor, as roam
The mimic passions o'er theatric scene,
To laugh, or weep; — O! not for these, I ween,
But for delights, that made the heart their home,
Was the grey night-frost on the sounding plain
More than the sun invoked, that gilds the grassy lane.

Yes, for the joys that trivial joys excel,
My loved H ONORA , did we hail the gloom
Of dim November's eve; — and, as it fell,
And the bright fire shone cheerful round the room,
Dropt the warm curtains with no tardy hand;
And felt our spirits and our hearts expand;
List'ning their steps, who still, where'er they come,
Make the keen stars, that glaze the settled snows,
More than the sun invoked when first he tints the rose.

Affection, — Friendship, — Sympathy, — your throne
Is winter's glowing hearth; — and ye were ours,
Thy smile, H ONORA , made them all our own.
Where are they now? — alas! their choicest powers
Faded at thy retreat; — for thou art gone,
And many a dark, long eve I sigh alone,
In thrill'd remembrance of the vanish'd hours,
When storms were dearer than the balmy gales,
And the grey barren fields than green luxuriant vales.