Classic Poem

The Muse, whose sorrows darken'd Hagley's groves,
When their lov'd L YCIDAS forgot to breathe,
Now strikes her pensive lyre to keener woes,
While those sad strains a kindred warmth bequeath.

Alas, L OTHARIO ! wert thou Virtue's child,
Sweet L UCY 's offspring, L YCIDAS thy sire?
How from thy noble lineage wander'd wild!
How warp'd thy native worth by vain desire!

Yet oft the meed of genius hast thou won;
Didst thou not gain from fame the fairest wreath?
Did not each Muse attend on L UCY 's son,
And for his brows the greenest chaplets weave?

Yes, early gain'd, as early did they fade;
Bankrupt in honour, with a vicious train,
His short-liv'd trophies wither'd in the shade
Of baleful pleasures, of amusements vain.

Then, self-condemn'd, the dangerous reasoner flew,
Spreading contagious eloquence around;
No sweet domestic peace, no pleasure knew,
Nor where one solid comfort could be found.

His brilliant wit, by all who heard admir'd,
The genius charms, while all the man despise;
Ev'n though that wit each gentler grace inspir'd,
Ev'n though sweet pity bade the genius rise.

Mark it, ye gay!—while in the wild career
Of false ambition's airy dance arrang'd,
Th' unerring, unsuspected foe drew near,
And with one rapid blow the prospect chang'd!

Angel of Mercy! in that awful hour
Didst Thou speak comfort to his struggling heart?
Did not his anguish supplicate Thy power?
His pungent sorrow plead the victim's part?

On Thy sweet charms the Muse delights to dwell,
Fair delegate of heaven's immortal King!
Thy healing balm can every pain repel,
And blunt the tyrant conqu'ror's venom'd sting.

Who knows the limits of thy great command?
Who knows what contrite pangs his bosom heav'd?
Who knows what fervent vows to Heaven he plann'd,
Or the last powerful sigh his anguish breath'd?

Clos'd be the painful scene—the trembling Muse
Drops the sad tear of pity on his tomb,
Nor dares absolve, nor rashly dares accuse,
But leaves to Mercy's God his final doom.