Classic Poem

Beauty, sweet despot! at whose rosy throne,
With fond obeisance, bows the willing earth;
Whose yoke the brave, whose sway the scepter'd, own;
Say, did the gods, in anger, give thee birth?

But to destroy, bright angel, wert thou sent?
The lovely plague, alluring scourge of Heav'n!
Was that soft eye, to scatter torments, meant?
Were those sweet smiles, to kindle anguish, giv'n?

Say, with severe intent, hath Nature fram'd
Of all her works the fairest as the last?
Hath she the lily's white, in vengeance, sham'd?
In wrath, the morning's purple hues surpast?

How oft, red glaring with consuming fire,
Has Discord's torch been lighted at thine eye!
For thee hath fiercely burn'd fraternal ire;
And Friendship chang'd to sharpest enmity!

O'ersheltering long the blissful private scene,
See, disappears the Olive's lovely shade!
Farewel fair smiles! adieu the sweet serene!
Lo! Fury's lightening eye, and thirsty blade!

From tubes oppos'd explosions dire resound!
The curling smoke pollutes the rural air!
Ah! see the sinking youth! the flowing wound!
Why wert thou form'd, contested maid, so fair?

To green retreats, not gentle sighs alone,
And soft despondence, Love's sad slave has borne:
Thither, with murderous hate the wretch has flown!
There the dark frown of vengeful anger worn!

There, not alone on the tree's letter'd rind,
The pointed steel has Beauty's pow'r confest;
Her fatal empire o'er the captive mind,
Other than sylvan wounds have oft exprest.

Of mournful ghosts, lo! yonder sullen groupe!
Successless love consum'd their youthful bloom:
The sighing parent mark'd them ceaseless droop;
And wept in anguish o'er their early tomb.

Oft has Eclipse his raven shadow thrown,
Where orient Health display'd her freshest ray;
With brightest beam where dawning Genius shone;
And morning Virtue shed her clearest day.

View the sad victim! where are now the fires,
Kindled at Heav'n, that once illum'd his look?
That drooping breast no more the Muse inspires:
At once of Joy, and Peace, and Hope, forsook.

Ah! why did Fate permit his heedless eye
The graces of an heavenly form to trace?
Or why, the lovely wonder seen, deny
That heavenly form to his devout embrace?

What lenient herb his throbbing wound can ease?
His faded health what healing spring restore?
No more can Fancy's fairest visions please,
Nor Friendship's kindest accent sooth him more.

Yet with what rapture once that bosom glow'd!
In his blest path what flowers did Fancy strew!
Ere yet at scornful Beauty's shrine he bow'd;
Ere yet the pang of slighted love he knew.

No tears he shed, save pity's soothing tear:
No sighs he breath'd, save pity's pleasing sigh:
Joy's sweetest roses bloom'd all round his year,
And life's most golden sunshine dress'd his sky.

'Tis past. — Gay transport fires his breast no more!
Farewel the peace which once his bosom knew!
The charm of life, the smile of youth, is o'er;
And each rich picture Hope's wild pencil drew.

Not him, whose mild dejection's fleeting mood,
Pensive, attends the tuneful bird of eve;
Whose light-felt woe, in lenient solitude,
Voluptuous sighs console, and tears relieve;

Not him who, fond o'er night's still scenes to rove,
With cherish'd sadness smiles upon the moon;
Or vents, in soothing plaints, a languid love,
Where sylvan glooms exclude the flaring noon;

Not him I mourn: it is not he has bled:
I mourn whose deeper love endures despair;
Who, sick of life, and to all comfort dead,
Heaves no sweet sigh, nor sheds one pleasing tear.

At dead of night, the lightening's pale blaze shows
His paler face; along the blasted heath,
Wild as the storm, the man of trouble goes,
Eyes the black cloud, and courts the bolt of death!

In vain, for him, morn lifts her smiling light;
In vain, for him, ascends the radiant day:
No dawn within him knows the unvaried night;
Impervious e'en to comfort's twilight ray.

No friend's familiar face he seems to know;
Nor will his sullen tongue to aught reply:
In listless absence lost, absorb'd in woe,
Nor heeds he what is said, nor who is by.

But ah! what means his sudden-alter'd look?
The frightful smile that grimly lights his face?
What were the sounds his lips' quick motion spoke?
And whither darts he, in that hurried pace?

Fly after him, ye angels of the good!
Pursue his steps, and shield his soul from ill!
He seeks the centre of the wide-spread wood,
Whose pensive shades hang on yon tumid hill: —

See! lightens, mid the glooms, the spark-touch'd grain!
The frighted echoes a dread burst repeat!
Soon, in that sad recess, some trembling swain
Finds vanquish'd Reason's pierc'd and shatter'd seat!

To pensive Memory's ruminating eye,
The recent scenes of tragic love arise!
Scarce yet the public tears, they drew, are dry;
From Pity's lip scarce parted yet the sighs!

At yon full theatre the chariot waits; —
Its mistress comes; — the torches light her way; —
Gay smiles the nymph; — as darkly lower the Fates; —
But one short moment shall that face be gay:

Hark! with dire found the long Piazza rings!
Down sinks the maid! amazement chills the throng!
Ah! what is man, when jealous fury stings?
Thy murderer, fair one, was thy lover long!

And when shall gentle hearts the tale forget
Of him whose bark the vast Atlantic plough'd;
Studious to lose, in battle's furious heat,
Love's milder flames, and find an early shroud.

For she, the maid whom more than life he loves,
By one more blest, to Hymen's bower is led:
Farewel, for ever then, my native groves!
I go to perish where the valiant bled.

Too soon he falls: but not as fall the brave:
Oblivious darkness blot th' inglorious day!
Sad Pity sits and weeps upon his grave;
While blushing Honour turns his eye away.