Classic Poem

To LAURA.

How long, how well, we've lov'd; Oh Laura, say!
Bid recollection trace the distant hour
When first we met in life's delightful May,
And our warm hearts confess'd fair Friendship's power.

Recall the portrait of the ingenuous mind,
Which from experience no stern precepts drew:
When gay, impetuous, innocent, and kind,
From taste congenial love spontaneous grew.

Deep had we quaff'd the cup of childish joy;
The simple sweet our nicer taste disdain'd.
We thought youth's promis'd feast would never cloy,
And of the future fairy prospects feign'd.

Time lifts the curtain of expected years;
Eager we rush the imagin'd good to find.
Say, if the blessing, when possess'd, appears
Fair, as the phantom that allur'd thy mind.

Doth the stern world those faultless friends disclose,
Thy guileless candour imag'd to thy soul?
Doth virtue guard thee from insidious blows,
Or sense the shafts of calumny controul?

For me! I thought the golden wreath of fame
Still in my reach, and like a trifler play'd:
But when I turn'd the glorious prize to claim,
My hopes had faded in oblivion's shade.

The dear associates, we in youth ever'd,
The world's rude changes from our arms have drove:
Some in the grave's dark cells, have disappear'd;
Some lost by distance; some estrang'd in love.

Yet there are views, which never will deceive,
In one sure prospect no false colours blend:
Death on our brows will press his cypress wreath,
And all our wishes in the dust will end.

Perchance, ere yet, yon zenith'd sun shall lave
In the salt deep, my conflict will be o'er.
Then, Laura, bending o'er my turf-clad grave,
Shall shed the tear, which I shall feel no more.

Or, if allotted many lengthened years,
We walk consociate through the tedious gloom,
'Till each lov'd object gradual disappears,
And our dim vision but discerns the tomb:

Still our try'd faith shall shame the fickle herd,
Whose civil forms are cold and unendear'd:
Nor shall a casual slight, or dubious word,
Efface the kindness we have long rever'd.

Friendship's sweet pleasures bless'd our early hours
With tender fellowship of hopes and fears:
Our ripen'd age shall feel its nobler powers;
Its calm endearments sooth our drooping years.

Then, when the levities of mirth offend,
When passion ceases its tormenting strise;
How sweet in converse with an aged friend,
To trace th' eventful history of life.

From present sorrow, lassitude, and pains,
To lift the soul to glory's promis'd sphere:
There may we meet, and, where love ever reigns,
Perfect the union which we cherish'd here.