Classic Poem

WHILE the winds whistle round my cheerless room,
And the pale morning droops with winter's gloom;
While indistinct lie rude and cultur'd lands,
The ripening harvest and the hoary sands;
Alone, and destitute of every page
That fires the poet, or informs the sage,
Where shall my wishes, where my fancy rove —
Rest upon past or cherish promist love?
Alas! the past I never can regain,
Wishes may rise and tears may flow — in vain.
Fancy, that shews her in her early bloom,
Throws barren sunshine o'er the unyielding tomb.
What then would passion, what would reason do?
Sure, to retrace is worse than to pursue.
Here will I sit, 'till heaven shall cease to lour,
And the bright Hesper bring the appointed hour;
Gaze on the mingled waste of sky and sea,
Think of my love, and bid her think of me.