Classic Poem

‘W HY loves my flower, the sweetest flower
That swells the golden breast of May,
Thrown rudely o'er this ruin'd tower,
To waste her solitary day?

‘Why, when the mead, the spicy vale,
The grove and genial garden call,
Will she her fragrant soul exhale,
Unheeded on the lonely wall?

‘For never sure was beauty born
To live in death's deserted shade!
Come, lovely flower, my banks adorn,
My banks for life and beauty made.’

Thus Pity wak'd the tender thought,
And by her sweet persuasion led,
To seize the hermit-flower I sought,
And bear her from her stony bed.

I sought—but sudden on mine ear
A voice in hollow murmurs broke,
And smote my heart with holy fear—
The Genius of the Ruin spoke.

‘From thee be far the' ungentle deed,
The honours of the dead to spoil,
Or take the sole remaining meed,
The flower that crowns their former toil!

‘Nor deem that flower the garden's foe,
Or fond to grace this barren shade;
'Tis Nature tells her to bestow
Her honours on the lonely dead.

‘For this, obedient zephyrs bear
Her light seeds round yon turret's mold,
And undispers'd by tempests there,
They rise in vegetable gold.

‘Nor shall thy wonder wake to see
Such desert scenes distinction crave;
Oft have they been, and oft shall be
Truth's, Honour's, Valour's, Beauty's grave.

‘Where longs to fall that rifted spire,
As weary of the' insulting air;
The poet's thought, the warrior's fire,
The lover's sighs are sleeping there.

‘When that too shakes the trembling ground,
Borne down by some tempestuous sky,
And many a slumbering cottage round
Startles—how still their hearts will lie!

‘Of them who, wrapt in earth so cold,
No more the smiling day shall view,
Should many a tender tale be told;
For many a tender thought is due.

‘Hast thou not seen some lover pale,
When evening brought the pensive hour,
Step slowly o'er the shadowy vale,
And stop to pluck the frequent flower:

‘Those flowers he surely meant to strew
On lost affection's lowly cell;
Though there, as fond remembrance grew,
Forgotten, from his hand they fell.

‘Has not for thee the fragrant thorn
Been taught her first rose to resign?
With vain but pious fondness borne
To deck thy Nancy's honour'd shrine!

‘'Tis Nature pleading in the breast,
Fair memory of her works to find;
And when to fate she yields the rest,
She claims the monumental mind.

‘Why, else, the o'ergrown paths of time
Would thus the letter'd sage explore,
With pain these crumbling ruins climb,
And on the doubtful sculpture pore?

‘Why seeks he with unwearied toil
Through Death's dim walks to urge his way,
Reclaim his long-asserted spoil,
And lead Oblivion into day?

‘'Tis Nature prompts, by toil or fear
Unmov'd, to range through Death's domain:
The tender parent loves to hear
Her children's story told again.

‘Treat not with scorn his thoughtful hours,
If haply near these haunts he stray;
Nor take the fair enlivening flowers
That bloom to cheer his lonely way.’