Classic Poem

From where his lofty head T ALHEO rears,
And o'er the wild in majesty appears,
What shall I write that * — — * won't disdain,
Or worth, from Thee one moment's space to gain?
The Muse, in vain, I court the lovely maid,
Views with contempt the rude unpolish'd shade,
Nor only this, she flies fierce war's alarms,
And seeks where peace invites with softer charms;
Where the gay landscapes strike the travellers eyes,
And woods and lawns in beauteous order rise;
Where the glad Swain sings on th' enamel'd green,
And views unaw'd by fears the pleasing scene.
Here no enchanting prospects yield delight,
But darksome forests intercept the sight;
Here fill'd with dread the trembling peasants go,
And start with terror at each nodding bough,
Nor as they trace the gloomy way along
Dare ask the influence of a chearing song.

If in this wild a pleasing spot we meet,
In happier times some humble swain's retreat;
Where once with joy he saw the grateful soil
Yield a luxuriant harvest to his toil,
(Blest with content, enjoy'd his solitude,
And knew his pleasures, tho' of manners rude);
The lonely prospect strikes a secret dread,
While round the ravag'd Cott we silent tread,
Whose Owner fell beneath the savage hand,
Or roves a captive on some hostile land,
While the rich fields, with Ceres' blessings stor'd,
Grieve for their slaughter'd, or their absent lord.

Yet, would I now attempt, some sprightly strain,
And strive to wake your breast to mirth again,
Yet, would I call you from your Delia's urn,
But Britain's Genius bids her sons to mourn;
She shews the fatal field, all drench'd in gore,
And in sad accents cries, my Howe 's no more!
Then let again the briny torrents flow,
Oh! teach your breast a nobler kind of woe!
To mourn her faded beauties now forbear,
And give the gallant Chief a British tear.