Classic Poem

Oh ! my sweet Phillis, thou who art long
The joy of my heart and the muse of my song,
See the pale merchant, so needlessly brave,
Daring the tempest and tempting the wave,
In his light vessel, by night and by day,
Ever pursuing his perilous way,
Gathering ever his harvest of gain
From the lone islanders over the main
Look at this other, whom Ceres leads
Over the ridges to scatter the seeds
List to the prayer of that anxious swain,
For the harvest time and the ripening grain.
Another toils 'neath helm and shield,
Fighting the foe on the bloody field,
Winning a puff of honour's breath,
At the mighty venture of blood and death
This man studies some light to draw
From the musty volumes of crabbed law.
And that other bends with the weight of cares,
Of the kingdom's weal and of state affairs;
I, while I breathe Apollonian strains
To the ivory lute of Etruscan plains,
And while I know not of misery's frown,
Or squalid poverty weighs me down,
Heave not a sigh for such splendid thrall
As the countless treasures of Crœsus' hall;
Ne'er shall you see me, by cares possest,
Loosing the peace of my tranquil breast,
Nor running on to a doubtful prize,
The tardy fruit of a thousand sighs.
Place me afar amid Scythian snows,
Or where the sand of the desert glows,
Or the city's noise or the haunts of trade,
Or the tranquil scene of some woodland glade;
Ever most happy shall be my fate
While I live in the golden middle state:
While in flattering dreams my fancy strays,
Pass, O Phillis! my flying days,
Thinking each moment a worthless thing
That bears not peace on its rapid wing.
If Phillis only will hear my sighs,
And grant me the light of her lovely eyes,—
If love but teach me the lyrist's art,
And song—the voice of the joyful heart,—
Though age may come with his wintry airs,
And scatter the snow on my silver hairs,
From the verdant marge of the Tuscan fount,
Full of the God shall my spirit mount;
Often amid the lyric throng
Shall you hear me weave the well-known song,
The dulcet tone and the thrilling fire,
The harmonious sound of my Teian lyre;
And thou, O Phillis! shalt still remain
The inspiring cause of my happy strain!