Classic Poem

Oh stay awhile thy silver horn,
That hastens now so fast away,
Adown the western pathway borne,
Closing the rear of parting day!

Sweet Queen of heaven! thou canst not find
In all thy daily circled course,
One who more feels within his mind
Thy soft persuasive beauty's force.

Thou goest o'er the lonely deep
To waste thy splendour on the tide,
Where only sea-born monsters sweep,
Unheeding of thy beamy pride;

Or on some woody mountain's head,
Canadian wilds shall drink thy ray;
Where savage tigers prowling tread,
And savage men more fierce than they;

Or on the long Atlantic shore,
The realm of trade thy view shall greet,
Where busy labour plies the oar,
And jostles in the crouded street.

Unhonour'd and unnotic'd there,
Thou shalt illume the lonely sky:
Then why to these dull sons of care,
Bright Queen, dost thou so quickly fly?

Do these allure thee to the west?
Dost thou prefer these scenes to me?
Nor can a poet's woe-fraught breast
Claim any privilege from thee?

The idlest of the idle train,
The meanest too, with heart forlorn,
He pours to thee his lonely strain,
And gazes on thy parting horn.

He hails thee as a well known friend,
A friend of past and better days;
To thee his fond affections tend,
His sad heart lightens in thy rays.

But not for man's frail plaints her laws
Shall constant nature e'er suspend,
Or stop th' unintermitting cause,
Whence planets in their orbits tend.

Ah no! tho' once a hero's tongue
Bade thee on Ajalon stand still,
No wandering poet's feeble song
Can stay thee on thy western hill.

Unmindful of his ardent prayer,
Thou shalt thy steady course pursue,
And to each clime alike shalt bear
Of light and joy proportion due.

Oh could I mount and soar with thee,
Far, far above this world of care!
And, sailing with thee o'er the sea,
Look down upon the nether air!

Then, as upon the mimic sphere,
We'd trace each river's waving line,
Each gloomy wood, each desart drear,
Each long-drawn mountain's craggy spine;

And view where Europe roll'd beneath
Her plains to despot pow'r resign'd,
Her streams so late distain'd with death,
Nor sigh to leave the scene behind;

And where old Ocean heav'd below
In billowy pride his vast expanse,
Mark how his swelling waters glow,
As shifting Moon-beams o'er them dance.

And there, perhaps, we should survey,
While o'er their barks the sea-spray flies,
Unhappy men who long for day; —
But day on them shall never rise.

Still westward in our course we glide,
And to our view the land appears,
Once the lov'd source of swelling pride,
Still lov'd, but ah! the source of tears.

That land whence Order slow retires,
And headlong Faction rears her claim;
Where Freedom kindled patriot fires,
But Commerce quench'd the rising flame.

Yet tho' the realm of trade it be,
Full gladly there with thee I'd roam;
It still has many charms for me,
For 'tis my country — 'tis my home. —

And liberal Nature there has spread,
To soothe the feeling mind, her stores:
Green groves there nod the lofty head,
And winding waters wash the shores.

And there, more worth than groves or streams,
The living life of beauty shines,
From many an eye its lustre gleams,
And many a heart its force refines.

And tho' with thee secure I range
Across the blue star-sprinkled plain,
'Tis beauty bids me wish to change,
And lures me back to earth again.

But ah, I dream! — no starry plain
My weary wandering footsteps tread;
No native land appears again,
Beneath in varied prospect spread;

No once lov'd beauty cheers my sight;
But whilst I cast my eyes around,
Yon castle, on the rocky height,
Tells me I tread on Scottish ground. —

Go then, and from this troubled breast
Its vain regrets, its wishes bear!
Go, give thy glories to the west!
Go! while the Wanderer tarries here,

And thou wilt find one little spot,
Where busy Trade does not intrude,
By pompous Art almost forgot,
But lov'd by musing Solitude.

When o'er that spot thy rays shall stream,
Roll not unheeding through the sky,
Steal gently down one brighter beam,
And let it glance on Delia's eye.

That eye, responsive to thy light,
Shall tremble with a brighter ray,
For well she loves to woo the night,
When thou thy crescent dost display.

And often when the young and gay,
Crouded the lustre-lighted room,
She, not unmark'd, has hied away,
To hail the twilight's dusky gloom.

And oft alone shall she be seen,
When thou shalt in the west be found,
And by the wonted pillar lean,
Where twines the honey-suckle round.

Let then no cloud obscure thy face,
No brooding tempest threaten near,
But one mild blue the welkin grace,
And silence rest upon the air.

For while to lonely musing given,
Her thoughts to former days may flee,
And 'mid the pleasures of the even,
Perhaps that she may think on me;

Then, could the skies a message bear,
Each wandering fire that rolls above,
Should waft unto her listening ear,
The truth that still I love, I love.

But how should'st thou my Delia know?
And who is she the maid so dear,
For whom I bid my numbers flow,
And weary evening with my prayer?

O! thou wilt know her, should'st thou spy
A maid that meekly moves along,
And shrinks from the obtrusive eye,
Nor mingles with the giddy throng.

Yet tho' unconscious of her power,
None with my Delia may compare,
For she is sweet as May's first flower,
And midst the fairest she is fair.

And thou wilt know her, for thou oft
Hast seen me fondly by her side,
With stolen sighs and whisper soft,
A suitor to her virgin pride.

Oft when thy rays illum'd the dome,
That near her mansion rose to view,
With secret step I left my home,
To meet my love so fair, so true.

To tell my tale of love I came,
Nor she disdain'd to hear me speak,
But sometimes own'd a mutual flame,
While night half hid her blushing cheek;

And when above the southern tree,
Orion's starry baldrick shone,
With sweet reproof she chid my stay,
And gently warn'd me to be gone.

But ah! these times are past, and drear
Unlovely prospects greet the eye;
And tho' Orion rises here,
Orion glides unheeded by.

For now ten times thy growing horn,
Has glisten'd on Night's forehead high,
Ten times to full perfection borne,
Thy orb has waned in the sky;

Since far from Delia, far from love,
Far from my native Severn's strand,
Lonely and comfortless I rove,
An Exile in a foreign land; —

Go then, and from this troubled breast
Its vain regrets, its wishes bear,
Go, give thy glories to the west!
Forlorn and sad I tarry here.