Classic Poem

Tho ' sweeter than the Saint's expiring slumbers,
Harmonious Sorceress! thy numbers flow;
And tho', full well, o'er those insidious numbers
Expression breathes her animated glow;

Ah me! beneath the myrtle-leaves, that cover
Thy golden lyre, the willow lurks malign;
The myrtle-leaves may deck thy favor'd lover,
Less happy youth! the willow must be mine.

Yet why dissolve that dream of chasten'd pleasure,
Which, erst so fair, deceiv'd my doating eye?
Why rob me of my heart's last, little treasure?
A tear unnotic'd, an unpitied sigh!

Why, tho' thy tender vow exalt another,
May not my rapt imagination rove
Beyond the solemn softness of a brother,
And live upon thy radiant looks of love?

Disrob'd of those gay, fascinating graces,
Which Fancy o'er its fond Idea streams,
The Sylphid-shape, in vain, Remembrance traces,
How cold, how cruel, my A NTHEMOE seems!

Oh! by that lip, where melting kisses cluster;
By the clear polish of that pensive brow;
And by that deep-blue eye's delicious lustre,
Whose delicate reproaches daunt me now;

While I, more fervid than fraternal duty,
Think in thy genius I behold my own,
Let not the Muse, who nurs'd thy infant beauty,
That beauty, truant from her breast, bemoan!

Ah! surely, of celestial growth, the flowers
That bloom'd so brightly o'er our early scene;
For tho' the sunny scene was dash'd with showers,
How glorious was the glitt'ring space between!

Young Innocence, array'd in guiltless blushes,
Would, then, preside o'er each delightful prank;
Wild-laughing, wreathe her mimic crown of rushes,
And pluck her jewels from the lillied bank;

Now, sterner cares impel, of big Ambition;
The glare of Beauty, and the din of Praise;
And (Nature quite disown'd,) that playful vision,
Is but the vision of departed days.

Yes! let the world to all its Joys receive thee,
I, too, will labour for the meed of Fame;
Form'd as thou art, its shews cannot deceive thee,
Thy conscious heart must ever be the same.

'Mid the mad waves of Life's inconstant ocean
My solitary skiff shall, vent'rous, steer;
And Mem'ry, smiling at the dread commotion,
Paint on each cloud Affection's harbour near.

Thy gilded bark, o'er the glad billows bounding,
Ætesian gales shall smoothly bear along;
And sighing crowds, its beauteous freight surrounding,
Salute thy splendid progress with a song;

While thou dost to the choral flatt'ry listen,
More gently sooth'd by melancholy bliss,
Perchance, thy meek, averted eye, may glisten
O'er some neglected verse — sincere as this.