Classic Poem

When the last arrowey splendors streak the air,
What as yon Orchard so divinely fair,
How meltingly the borrow'd tints unite
On the round balls the crimson and the white?
As half amid their clustering leaves they hide,
In blushes deeper than the morning dy'd.
Oh! cease your farewel to the setting sun,
Ye shriller throats!—The nightingale's begun;
A note so soft, so querulously clear,
Starts from the closing lid th' obedient tear,
While Contemplation heaves a tribute sigh
Enrapt, and silent droops he knows not why.

Away now all ye noisy storms of day,
Ye narrow passions, envious feuds, away,
Away, ye sounding rattles of this world,
When to the dungeon from the throne is hurl'd
A MBITION'S maniac, and his jewel'd head
In grim mock-triumph to the scaffold led;
Let F ORTUNE'S minions worship at her shrine
For what I've got sincerest thanks be mine,
Fatal expence will drain the coffer'd ore,
When G RATITUDE may make my trifle more:
Hail G RATITUDE , of T RUTH the lovely child,
O'er Thee, the gods, in glittering synod smil'd,
To thee the intellectual charm they gave,
White H ONOUR , with D ISCRETION , truly brave,
Mild as the halcyon mid the howling wave!

Whilom, what wayward ditties would I frame?
My tender breast then emulous of F AME ,
Ev'n then, when the sage Pedagogue austere,
For tuneful truantry would draw the tear,
Ev'n then, I melted in melodious joy,
With wild-wreaths quaintly crown'd, the Muse's boy!
My song to hear, with venerable mien,
And brow intent, the parish-clerk would lean,
And conn'd by rote, the garrulous barber knew
To spread each sonnet the whole village thro'.
Nor was the village negligent of rhime,
There, minstrels were rever'd since eldest time,
Nor ceas'd my H ARETON'S relics to inspire
The sprightly viol, and th' heroic lyre.