Classic Poem

Wanton Hygeia, whither art thou fled,
Neglectful of a youth so late thy care?
Oh! let not pallid sickness bow his head,
Or from his cheek thy glowing roses tear.

Each charm thou gavest the envious hag contemns;
Breathes o'er his eyes a dim and chearless shade,
Spoiling the lustre of those liquid gems
Where, deck'd in smiles, thy fair resemblance play'd.

She sees, with joy malign, his nerves unstrung,
His faculties subdued by racking pain;
And hears, remorseless, from his fault'ring tongue,
The wild delusions of his wearied brain.

Haste then, blythe goddess, this tormentor chase, —
Haste to his aid, and renovate each grace.