Classic Poem

O Nymph long sought, of placid mien,
Of careless step, and brow serene,
I woo thee from the rustic bowers
Where listless pass thy easy hours.
Or if, a Naiade of the silver wave,
Thou'rt sweetly pleased thyself at ease to lave
In some bright Lake, on whose unruffled face
The weeping Willow loves itself to trace,
Or if, from cell within some Rock
Thy Smiles all human sorrow mock,
Where'er thou art, on Earth, in Air,
Oh! come, and chase away despair!

Have I not marked thee on the Green
Roving, by vulgar eyes unseen?
Have I not watch'd thy lightsome dance
As Evening's mellowed glows advance?
Sweet soother, Yes! and whilst the Rustic's mirth
Proclaims the hour which gives wild Gambols birth,
Supine I've found thee in the Elm-row's shade,
Lull'd by the hum returning Bees have made,
As, chary of their golden spoils,
They close their fragrant fruitful toils,
And to their waxen couches throng,
With rest-inviting slumb'rous song.

Sweet Nymph! the region let me seek
Where thou resid'st with aspect meek;
My future life to thee I give
Oh! tranquillize each hour I live!
'Tis true no glowing Bliss thy vot'ries know,
From thee no poignant Ecstacy can flow,
But oh! thou shield'st the Heart from rankling pain,
Misfortune threats, when blest with thee, in vain!
Wan Jealousy's empoisoning tooth,
And Love, that feeds upon our Youth,
And holy Friendship's broken tie,
Ne'er dim the Lustre of thine eye.

For Thee it is all Nature blooms,
For Thee, the Spring new charms assumes,
Nor vainly ope her Blossoms round,
Nor vainly do her Groves resound;
Her Music, Colours, Perfumes, all are thine,
To thee her Months their richest gifts consign.
To thee the Morn is bright, sweet too the ray
That marks the progress of the sinking day!
Each Change is grateful to thy soul,
No Woes the mental powers controul,
The Charms of Nature, and of Art,
Alike delight the care-free heart!

And oh! beneath the happy dome
Where thy calm presence cheers the home,
That torturous imp is never found
Whose praise such idle songs resound
Dread S ENSIBILITY !—Ah! let me fly
Where Greenland darkness veils the lucid sky,
Or where the Sun, with downward torrid ray,
Kills with the beams direct of fiery day.
I'd dare th' excess of every Clime,
Endure each evil known to time,
Ere live beneath that Witch's spells,
With whom no lasting pleasure dwells!

Her thrilling power deludes the Heart,
Her Tear is ever prompt to start,
Her tender Look, her ready Sigh,
And soft Emotion always nigh.
All calm Repose th' insidious fiend forbids,
All soothing slumber chases from our lids,
She heightens Fancies into real woe
Till keenest tortures in the bosom grow!
She kills all Taste! In vain the Spring
Bids birds through groves their Matins sing,
The roseate Morn's hygean bloom,
Sinks, unobserved, to evening's Gloom.

When She has seized upon the Heart,
Taste can no ray of bliss impart,
One strong idea fills the mind,
And harasses with throes unkind.
Strain'd to Excess, R EASON'S her vanquished slave,
The frantic victim shuns her in the grave.
To her all crimes, all evils, owe their birth,
That reign, in dreadful sway, o'er all the earth!
She mixes, wildly, Smiles with Tears,
And where's no Ill, she thrills with Fears!
Knows most Delight, when most we smart—
Now, whilst she prompts my pen, she riots in my Heart!