Classic Poem

Whilst I am in thy Poem[s], I am led
Through a rich gallery, in which are spread
The choicest pictures of true skill and height,
Where every pause is rapture and delight.
Here, by thy fancy taught Apollo plays
To his own Daphne in a stand of bays;
Here myrtle shades are, there the cypress groves;
Here lovers sigh, and there embrace their loves.
By, through a flowery vale, there gently glides
A silver stream, whose prattling current chides
Itself in turtle-murmurs, and betray'd
To every eye, like to some bashful maid
Discover'd in her beauties, fain would haste
To hide those blushes which do speak her chaste.
Here thy Narcissus in his loved despair,
Courts all the rest to silence; sweet and fair,
His love and sorrow shews him; but to hear
Him breathe'em thus, who would not be all ear?
What in his story did before but move
Our pity, we do now admire, and love
Beyond himself; so every maid would be
His kind Nymph's rival, borrowing from thee
Those charms of love and language, where thy art
Gives Cupid[s] feathers unto every dart.
Thy Poem is as lovely, and all wit
Thy Echo is, and making love to it:
Let Ovid boast their story; but their names
Will take eternity from thee, dear James.