Classic Poem

In the Manner of O VID .

In fruitful C LYDESDALE stands my native seat,
Mean, but not sordid, tho' not spacious, neat;
In C LYDESDALE , noted for its lovely dames,
And meadows, water'd with irrugnous streams;
For juicy apples, and for mellow pears,
Firm-footed horses and laborious steers:
In vain! would Phaebus cleave the earth with heat,
Or scorching S IRIUS desolation threat;
In vernal pride still smiles the varied scene,
The fields still flourish, and the grass is green;
Refreshing rills meander all around;
And flow'ry turfs still shade the sappy ground.
But what are meads or racy fruits to me,
When far remov'd from happiness and thee?
Each charming prospect changes to a wild,
And desolation reigns in ev'ry field.
M IRA is absent! — tho' I dwelt above,
The dismal thought would sadden ev'ry grove,
Would change the hue of each immortal flow'r,
And star-stuck arches would appear to low'r.
But, wert thou there, the windy Alps would please,
Or G REENLAND , guarded with her glassy seas;
Thy presence would disarm the bitter blast,
And melt the mountains of eternal frost.

How doubly pleasant, walking by thy side,
Were M AIDEN 's meadows, and the banks of C LYDE ,
From blooming furze the linnet's matin lay,
Or lark's swift borne on early winds away!

C OME to my arms, my mistress and my wife!
Nor waste the morning of too short a life.
Where'er she comes, ye swelling hills subside!
And verdant valleys smile on ev'ry side.