Classic Poem

BY THE SAME .

'T WAS when sweet spring had deck'd the smiling green
With flow'rs, uncultur'd by the hand of art,
Nature had beautify'd the rural scene,
And all creation did its loveliest bloom impart:

One eve, when Philomel's delightful song
Had chear'd the plains, and fill'd the list'ning wood;
Musing, and pensive, as I pass'd along,
Beneath a shelt'ring elm a hoary hermit stood.

His wounded breast was wrung with sad despair,
His mournful looks confess'd his inward grief;
With furious hands he tore his silver hair,
And pierc'd th'expanded sky with pray'rs for his relief.

Cold as the senseless earth, and fix'd, I stood,
Hoping kind heav'n its pity would bestow;
I gaz'd; chill horror froze my curdling blood:
He saw my trembling form and strove to calm his woe.

My son, he said, draw near, and learn of me
This moral truth, How short is pleasure's day!
To her fair shrine bow not thy youthful knee,
Her smiles to vice allure, and will thy steps betray.

By her false words misled, I, guilty, strove
To seek for happiness, but sought in vain;
The pangs of conscience still those joys reprove,
And ev'ry folly past but heightens present pain.

Weary'd with pleasure then, I bade adieu
To fortune's smiles; a treach'rous syren she;
Now my past life with sad remorse I view,
And, with an anxious heart, behold futurity.

For this, my son, thou seest this faded eye
For ever pour reflection's painful tear;
For this I left the world, and here shall die,
Sad proof how vain the joys my youth had deem'd sincere!

He said; his words impress'd upon my mind
Precepts, that ne'er shall fail this faithful heart;
Virtue, the best instructress man can find,
When gay temptation lures, her succour shall impart.