Classic Poem

Ye mournful meanders and groves,
Delight of the Muse and her song!
Ye grottos and dropping alcoves,
No strangers to Corydon's tongue!

Let each Sylvan and Dryad declare
His themes and his music how dear;
Their plaints and their dirges prepare,
Attendant on Corydon's bier.

The echo that join'd in the lay,
So amorous, sprightly, and free,
Shall send forth the sounds of dismay,
And sigh with sad pity for thee.

Wild wander his flocks with the breeze;
His reed can no longer controul;
His numbers no longer can please,
Or send kind relief to the soul.

But long may they wander and bleat,
To hills tell the tale of their wo;
The woodlands the tale shall repeat,
And the waters shall mournfully flow.

For these were the haunts of his love,
The sacred retreats of his ease,
Where favourite Fancy would rove,
As wanton, as light as the breeze.

Her zone will discolour'd appear,
With fanciful ringlets unbound,
A face pale and languid she'll wear,
A heart fraught with sorrow profound.

The reed of each shepherd will mourn,
The shades of Parnassus decay;
The Muses will dry their sad urn,
Since 'reft of young Corydon's lay.

To him ev'ry passion was known
That throbb'd in the breast with desire;
Each gentle affection was shewn
In the soft sighing songs of his lyre.

Like the caroling thrush on the spray
In music soft warbling and wild,
To love was devoted each lay,
In accents pathetic and mild.

Let beauty and virtue revere,
And the songs of the shepherd approve,
Who felt, who lamented the snare,
When repining at pityless love.

The summer but languidly gleams,
Pomona no comfort can bring,
Nor vallies, nor grottos, nor streams,
Nor the May-born flow'rets of spring.

They've fled all with Corydon's Muse,
For his brows to form chaplets of wo;
Whose reed oft awaken'd their boughs,
As the whispering breezes that blow.

To many a fanciful spring
His lyre was melodiously strung;
While fairies and fawns in a ring
Have applauded the swain as he sung.

To the cheerful he usher'd his smiles,
To the woful his sigh and his tear;
A condoler with want and her toils,
When the voice of oppression was near.

Tho' titles and wealth were his due,
Tho' Fortune denied the reward;
Yet truth and sincerity knew
What the goddess would never regard.

Avails aught the generous heart,
Which Nature to goodness design'd,
If Fortune denies to impart
Her kindly relief to the mind?

'Twas but faint the relief to dismay,
The cells of the wretched among;
Tho' sympathy sung in the lay,
Tho' melody fell from his tongue.

Let the favour'd of Fortune attend
To the ails of the wretched and poor:
Tho' Corydon's lays can befriend
'Tis riches alone that can cure.

But they to Compassion are dumb,
To Pity their voices unknown;
Near Sorrow they never can come,
Till Misfortune has mark'd them her own.

Now the shades of the evening depend;
Each warbler is lull'd on the spray;
The cypress doth ruefully bend
Where the cold corpse of Corydon stay.

Adieu then the songs of the swain!
Let Peace still attend on his shade;
And his pipe that is dumb to his strain,
In the grave be with Corydon laid.