Classic Poem

Why loiters Daphne? whither does she stray?
Thy Damon calls, haste Daphne, come away.
She comes not yet! impatient heart, be still:
I'll wait her coming near this murm'ring rill,
And the dull interval of time beguile,
In viewing myriads chear'd by Nature's smile.
Not you, ye swarthy Pines, can please my sight;
Nor you, tall Oaks, that grace the mountain's height;
Nor thou, full Stream, whose rapid waters roll
Like thunder echoing from the distant pole;
But you, soft babbling Brooks, that gently stray,
And 'midst promiscuous sweets in eddies play;
While broad-leav'd plants your glassy surface hide,
And cresses float upon your circling tide;
While vernal flow'rs their dulcet fragrance lend,
And o'er your limpid stream in clusters bend.

With heedful eyes here view these turfy groves,
See! how the insect-world transported roves!
What od'rous sweets those flow'ry banks display,
And orient drops profuse the grass array!
The tall blades waving like the lofty Pine,
While little tufts in humbler beauty shine;
But not a flow'r a sweeter fragrance yields,
Than the blue Violet 'midst th' enamel'd fields;
Emblem of sacred Wisdom, meek she bends,
Diffusing sweetness to her humble friends;
Whilst other flow'rs, less sweet, less lovely fair,
With tow'ring heads salute the ambient air;
Yet breathing odours rise profuse from all,
Each offers incense at the morning's call.

Mark! sportive swarms now hail the sun's bright ray,
With wings whose colours gild the face of day;
Here beauty, order, just proportion shine,
And chaunt — " The hand that made us is Divine. "
But what sweet blossom's that which greets mine eye
With tints of azure and the Tyrian dye?
How wanton zephyrs sporting o'er it play!
But ah! th' inchanted flowret's flown away!
A Being animate he too can boast,
For in the butterfly the blossom's lost!

Behold yon insect gaily sportive fly,
And charm, with varied grace, th' astonish'd eye;
His jetty scales in polish'd order plac'd,
And with rich scarlet plumes his sides are grac'd;
That Pink attractive bids him sweetly rest,
And hum the passions of his little breast;
Haply his absent mate inspires his notes,
Whilst his soft music in the aether floats.
Ye gentle zephyrs, for a while be still,
O! cease a while to flow, thou purling rill,
That I may hear this minstrel of the grove,
In sweetest accents tune his song of love:
Such are its tender sounds, that scarce the ear
Notes so refin'd, so delicate can hear;
Such the construction of its curious mould,
Hardly the eye the fabric can behold.

Ah! whence that rustling sound? say, flow'ry bed!
Each Rose, each Lilly bends its wavy head!
Affrighted bends! for lo! a hostile train
Of yellow rovers hover o'er the plain;
The industrious spoilers ev'ry flow'r explore,
And add new fragrance to their balmy store;
With equal ardour diligently stray,
Then rapt'rous bear their honey'd prize away.

There, in that Trefoil shade, expanded lies
The late deceiver of my dazzled eyes;
Th' enamel'd wings seem burnish'd fresh with gold,
Now cautious spread, and now together fold;
Gay, gaudy Fly! go, hover o'er that stream,
And mark thy beauty in the passing gleam;
So wilt thou emulate the fair, the gay,
Who waste at toilets their long useless day;
Yet all that nature, pomp, or beauty bless,
Must yield to thee in elegance of dress.

But Zephyr now begins a rougher breeze,
And gusts impetuous rend the quiv'ring trees;
Each frighted insect to his shed repairs,
'Till Nature's brow a calmer aspect wears.

Soft now! what phantom rushes on my view,
Rob'd like the rainbow in each vary'd hue?
Beware, ye flow'rs! 'tis Hyacinth, the gay,
Trampling your sweets, he hastens on his way;
In vain, for him, luxuriant Nature spreads
Her mossy carpets, her embroider'd meads:
Infects and plants, what odious hateful things!
Sure trivial rapture from from such sources springs!
Sol too, effulging thro' the roseate morn,
Paints scenes thy radiant eyes behold with scorn;
Such grave enjoyments polish'd youths despise,
More striking beauties dwell in Harriot's eyes;
To her he flies, the gay beau-monde are there,
Soft, well-drest youths, and giddy, gaudy fair:
Forgive, O! Hyacinth, my want of taste,
To me gay circles seem a desart waste;
On pleasure's wings your rapid moments fly,
While Nature and her God neglected lie.

But see! my lovely Daphne now appears,
She comes all sweetness, and dispels my fears.
Adieu, ye flow'rs, ye lawns, thou purling rill,
My Daphne comes, and now my heart is still:
And you, ye tenants of the fragrant grove,
Oft shall my steps amidst your dwellings rove;
Delights like these my ravish'd soul refine,
I taste the blessings of a hand divine;
Here useful, beautiful, united prove
Their maker, God of harmony and love.

But see! my Daphne's come, in green array'd,
The happy zephyrs kiss the beauteous maid;
Gentle her smiles, her eyes benignly bright,
Yet lost on me were that inchanting sight,
Did not her modest, her attractive mien,
Conscious imply the Graces dwell within;
Benevolence and Truth her steps attend,
And ev'ry virtue owns her for a friend.