Classic Poem

What though the rose-buds from my cheek
Have faded all! which once so sleek
Spoke Youth, and Joy, and careless thought.
By Guilt, or Fear, or Shame, uncaught,
My Soul, uninjured, still hath Youth,
Its lively sense attests the truth!
Oh! I can wander yet, and taste
The beauties of the flowery waste,
The Nightingale's deep swell can feel
Till to the eye a tear doth steal,
Rapt! gaze upon the gem-deck'd night,
Or mark the clear Moon's gradual flight,
Whilst the bright river's rippled wave
Repeats the quivering beams she gave.
Nor yet does PAINTING strive in vain,
To waken from its Canvass plain
The Lofty Passions of the mind,
Or hint the sentiment refined,
To the sweet Magic yet I bow
As when Youth deck'd my polish'd brow.
The Chissel's lightest touch to trace
Through the pure form, or soften'd grace,
Is lent me still, I still admire,
And kindle at the POET 's fire —
Why Time! since these are left me still,
Of lesser thefts e'en take thy fill.
Yes, take all lustre from my eye,
And let the blithe carnation fly,
My tresses sprinkle o'er with snow,
That boasted once their auburn glow,
Break the slim form that was adored
By him, so loved, my wedded Lord,
But, leave me, whilst all these you steal,
The Mind to taste, the Nerve to feel!