Classic Poem

Deep in the bosom of departed days,
Where the first gems of human glory blaze;
Where, crown'd with flowers, in wreaths immortal drest,
The sacred shades of ancient virtue rest;
With joy they search, who joy can feel, to find
Some honest reason still to love mankind.
There the fair foundress of the scene to-night,
Explores the paths that dignify delight;
The regions of the mighty dead pervades;
The shy she that leads us to the shades,
O may each blast of ruder breath forbear
To waft her light leaves on the ruthless air:
Since she, as heedless, strives not to maintain
This tender offspring of her teeming brain!
For this poor, birth was no provision made,
A flower that sprung and languish'd in the shade.
Off Avon's banks forsaken and forlorn,
This careless mother left her elder born;
And though unlike what Avon hail'd of yore,
Those giant sons that Shakspeare's banners born,
Yet may we yield this little offspring grace,
And love the last and least of such a race.
Shall the strong scenes, where senatorial Rome
Mourn'd o'er the rigour of her patriot's doom;
Where melting Nature, aw'd by Virtue's eye,
Hid the big drop, and held the bursting sigh,
Where all that majesty of soul can give,
Truth, Honour, Pity, fair Affection live:
Shall scenes like these, the glory of an age,
Gleam from the press, nor triumph on the stage?
Forbid it, Britons! and, as Romans brave,
Like Romans boast one citizen to save.