Classic Poem

We list not here of pompous phrase to say,
What order'd equipage prepares the day;
Grooms, prelates, peers, and nymphs, a shining train,
To wait the beauteous Victim o'er the main:
All Rome attend in wish the lovely Maid;
And Heaven their universal vows invade.

At length the day, the woful day arrives,
And every face of wonted cheer deprives;
The fatal hour admits no fond delay,
That shall the joy from every heart convey.
Ye men of Rome! your parting glory mourn;
Far from your sight your Darling shall be torn;
No more the morn with usual smiles arise,
Or with C ONSTANTIA bless your longing eyes,
Of every tongue, of every pen the theme,
The daily subject, and the nightly dream!

But, O C ONSTANTIA ! say, thou fair distrest,
What woes that hour thy lovely soul possest?
Its native cheek the bright carnation fled,
And charg'd with grief reclined thy beauteous head;
To lands unknown those limbs must now repair,
Nurs'd in the down of fond paternal care.
Peace spread thy nightly couch to sweet repose,
Delight around thy smiling form arose,
Each scene familiar to thy eye appear'd,
And custom long thy native soil endear'd:
Fas'd by thy bounty, at thy sight exiled,
Grief was no more, or in thy presence smiled;
Each rising wish thy glad attendants seiz'd;
To give thee pleasure, every heart was pleas'd:
But now to strange to foreign climes convey'd,
Strange objects must thy loathing sense invade,
Strange features to thy weeping eyes appear,
Strange accents pierce thy undelighted ear;
In distant unacquainted bondage tied,
The gilded slave of insolence and pride,
Perhaps of form uncouth, and temper base,
Thy lord shall clasp thee with abhorr'd embrace.