Classic Poem

The sky was blue, the wind was still,
The black-bird whistl'd from the brake;
The setting Sun's departing beams,
Gleam'd o'er the smooth expanded lake:
The clust'ring trees on distant hills,
Seem'd in its crystal breast to smile;
And fields, in Summer's beauty drest,
Confest the weary plowman's toil.

But Henry's heart was 'prest wi' care,
Though Nature did her charms disclose;
Her mantle, ting'd with various hues,
But served to tantalize his woes.
The soft wave murmur'd to his sighs,
Beside yon leafless fogged tree;
And ay he sigh'd and said “Alas!
“Farewell ye bonny banks of Dee!

“A long farewell, ye happy bowers,
Where Cultivation spreads her wing;
Ye mansions fair and wood-fring'd vale,
Where warbling choirs delight to sing!
'Twas there where first my youthful heart
The hopes and fears of love essay'd;
There first I saw the opening charms
Of thee, Maria, peerless maid!

“Her looks were like the summer morn,
When early sunbeams gild the flower;
Her cheek was like the damask rose,
While bending with the dewy shower.
But all her beauties to define,
Would need the noble Raphael's art;—
But vain to me his living lines,
For deep they're graven on my heart.

“'Twas her's to feel, while bended Want,
Breath'd out his woes, his cares, and pain;
Her little all was freely lent;
He never told his tale in vain:
But if she read the luckless loves,
Of Palemon and Anna dear,
Which hapless Arion doth unfold;
Fast fell the sympathetic tear.

“Oft have I check'd the glowing flame,
That fondly flutter'd in my breast,
Least friends should frown, or fate deny,
And hurt her wonted peace and rest.
But lovers vain the wish would hide,
For eyes can eloquently speak;
How soon she answered sigh for sigh,
While crimson blushes spread her cheek!

“Each look confest, each touch betray'd,
And soft words dropped from my tongue;
And when she spake, upon the tones
My ravished ear with transport hung.
Sweet was the task for me to teach,
My lovely scholar all my skill;
To touch with art the warbling wire,
Or in that hand to guide the quill.

“But fled, alas, are all my joys!
While mem'ry wrings the heart with pain;
The sweeter joy the keener grief,
Because it ne'er returns again.
A cruel father's ruthless heart,
Forbade us ev'n the last adieu;
And robb'd me of my soul's delight—
Maria's face no more I view.

“What boots his boasted sacred name,
His feigned virtues stern and vain;
He bows at Fashion's tinsell'd shrine,
To empty pride and sordid gain.
Ah, gaudy pomp, and gorgeous wealth,
For what ye take ye ill repay;
Ye steel the heart for selfish ends,
And sweep each social tie away.”