Classic Poem

O thou, of Nature's mental works the pride!
Made of a finer dust, with nicer art!
In whose etherial, thrilling frame reside
The lively fancy, and the feeling heart!

Doubtful, or to lament, or hail thy doom,
The Muse, prophetic, marks thy bosom's glow:
She sees the Fates surround the mystic loom;
They weave thee transports keen, and pungent woe.

Anxious, she hovers o'er the web the while,
Reads, as it grows, thy figur'd story there:
Now, she explains the texture with a smile,
And, now, the woof interprets with a tear.

Thine is the eye, in earth, and air, and sea,
All, or sublime or fair, that finds and feels!
All Nature's glories, all her charms, to thee
(Conceal'd from others) partial Heav'n reveals!

For thee, the dawn's fine rose-suffusion glows;
For thee, the purple cloud of evening shines;
Flushing, for thee, the vernal blossom blows;
Yellowing, for thee, the sickly year declines.

'Tis thine to draw refin'd and rich delight
Or from the shaggy wild, or cultur'd plain;
Heav'n's smiling beams, or shoots of angry light;
Th' expansive peace, or tumult of the main.

Thine are the sprightly scenes of laughing day;
Thine, awful midnight's solemn starry hour;
Thine, the fresh dome on glossy pillars gay;
And thine, the ivy-vested, mouldering tower.

To please thine ear, soft notes the linnet pours;
And, with grand peal, the deep-ton'd thunder rolls;
The streamlet murmurs, and the torrent roars;
The zephyr whispers, and the tempest howls.

From each or lofty or mellifluous sound,
Each fair or awful form that strikes the sight,
In Art's wide sphere, or Nature's ample round,
'Tis thine to draw refin'd and rich delight.

Thine is the eye, that with sweet fury rolls
O'er the bright page where heroes shine again!
Where the great energies of generous souls
Repeat their glorious scorn of Death and Pain!

By Vice's side when Virtue's form is shown;
When bold she struggles with a heat divine;
Or on her victor looks superior down;
Thine is the page! the glowing leaf is thine!

Nor thy bold joys can Nature's self confine:
At Fancy's FIAT , lo! new worlds appear!
Fine airy sounds, light airy forms are thine;
Sacred from vulgar eye and vulgar ear.

Each shade of bliss thou own'st; — to thee belongs
The sweet depression of the pensive hour;
Soft sighs that please more than or festive songs,
Triumph's loud shout, or riot's wild uproar.

Blest is thy commerce with a kindred mind!
All social charms t' enrich the hour unite!
Friendship's pure effluence, feast of taste refin'd,
The force of reason, and the play of wit!

Should'st thou, thy fund of softer soul to prove,
Find Beauty's seal imprest on Virtue's shrine;
And should the brilliant eye that lights thy love,
On thy young hopes let fall a ray benign;

Then shalt thou throw around the earth thine eye,
Nor aught that wakes thy faintest envy see;
But, pitying all beneath this ample sky,
Deem the wide world of bliss comprest in thee!

Fair, in thy field of life, these joys appear:
Ah! that unmix'd the lovely harvest grew!
But Nature, when she sow'd rich transports there,
Forth from her hand the seeds of anguish threw.

Lo! in her cave grim Want awaits her prey!
Her frolic prey, that now no evil heeds:
Sportful in gay Profusion's flowery way,
And thoughtless whither each rash footstep leads.

The Muses' sons no knee to Mammon bend;
No smiles from Mammon bless the Muses' train;
'Tis seldom Fortune's rays with Fancy's blend;
Ill suit the arts of song with arts of gain!

Each pulse for costly transport beating high;
Nor knowing on Distress to close thy door;
Won by each siren note, and plaintive sigh;
Howe'er it swell'd, full soon shall melt thy store!

Then, should not forward eager Friendship seek
Thy coy despair, resolv'd thine head to raise,
Fast fades thine eye, and swiftly wastes thy cheek,
And Woe's last friend her beckon soon obeys!

Silent thou lay'st thee down, resign'd to die;
Aid, but of Death, too stately to implore:
No hand of thine, proud sufferer, e'er shall try
Want's faint and fearful knock at Grandeur's door.

If ills like these, from thy warm, heedless youth,
With watchful shield, thy guardian Genius ward,
Thy social tenderness, thy social truth,
Ah! who from social agonies shall guard?

All pale, I view thee, hanging o'er the bed,
Where he thou long had'st valued, breathless lies!
To wake the dust thou wilt not know is dead,
Thy frantic grief, with wildest effort, tries!

The venom'd tooth that honied lips conceal,
Which wounds each breast that takes the serpent in,
Whose cruel bite e'en torpid bosoms feel,
Oh! the keen torment it shall dart thro' thine!

But chiefly shall thy throbbing bosom prove,
How Torture's vultures hearts like thine can tear,
If she, whose powerful charms have won thy love,
Prove unpropitious to thy gentle prayer!

Or should the faithless sunshine of her eye
Lure tender hope its timid bud to show,
Soon to shrink back from cold inconstancy,
By chill, inclement frowns forbid to blow;

Or, foe of love, should some malignant star,
Thy mistress, kind in vain and vainly true,
From thine extended arms for ever bar,
And with relentless hate your loves pursue;

Then, nor shall various scene, nor lonely sighs,
Nor Friendship's tongue, nor Wit's nor Wisdom's page,
Nor all the charm the heavenly Muse supplies,
Thy breast's tempestuous sorrows soon assuage!

For thee, quick kindling at each fairer beam,
To whom the glowing, burning soul is giv'n,
For thee, all trembling in each dire extreme,
Love has no mean — 'tis madness, or 'tis heav'n!

But, oh! whate'er the lowering cloud of woe
That veils life's beauteous sunshine from thy sight,
Though stern Adversity around thee throw
The deepest shadows of her tragic night;

In Horror's blackest hour, the hand restrain,
Wild service that would yield to mad Despair,
The pointed steel with impious purple stain,
Or for death-thirsty lips the draught prepare.