Classic Poem

Tune, tune thy lyre; begin, my Muse!
What nymph, what queen, what goddess, wilt thou chuse?
Whose praises sing? what charmer's name
Transmit immortal down to fame?
Strike, strike thy strings; let Echo take the sound,
And bear it far, to all the mountains round;
Pindus again shall hear, again rejoice,
And Haemus too, as when th' enchanting voice
Of tuneful Orpheus charm'd the grove,
Taught oaks to dance, and made the cedars move.

Nor Venus nor Diana will we name;
Mira is Venus and Diana too;
All that was feign'd of them apply'd to her is true:
Then sing, my Muse! let Mira be our theme.
As when the shepherds would a garland make,
They search with care the fragrant meadows round,
Plucking but here and there, and only take
The choicest flowers, with which some nymph is crown'd;
In framing Mira, so divinely fair,
Nature has taken the same care;
All that is lovely, noble, good, we see,
All, beauteous Mira! all bound up in thee.
Where Mira is, there is the queen of Love,
Th' Arcadian pastures and th' Idalian grove.
Let Mira dance, so charming is her mien,
In ev'ry movement ev'ry grace is seen:
Let Mira sing, the notes so sweetly wound,
The Syrens would be Silent at the sound.
Place me on mountains of eternal snow,
Where all is ice, all winter winds that blow;
Or cast me underneath the burning line,
Where everlasting sun does shine,
Where all is scorch'd — Whatever you decree,
Ye gods! wherever I shall be,
Mira shall still be lov'd, and still ador'd by me.