Classic Poem

Not mine to mount to courts where seraphs sing,
Or glad archangels soar on outstretched wing;
Not mine in union with celestial choirs
To sound heaven's trump, or strike the gentler wires;
Not mine to stand enrolled at crystal gates,
Where Michael thunders or where Uriel waits.
But lesser worlds a Father's kindness know;
Be mine some simple service here below, —
To weep with those who weep, their joys to share,
Their pain to solace, or their burdens bear;
Some widow in her agony to meet;
Some exile in his new-found home to greet;
To serve some child of thine, and so serve thee, —
Lo, here am I! To such a work send me!

A FABLE.

Beside a warbling flow'ry grove
By contemplation led, or love,
Lone, in the summer noon-tide ray,
Young beauteous Jeanie basking lay,
Her cheeks outvy'd the rose's bloom,
Her lips the cherry — breath, perfume,
In silk apparel, loose array'd,
She beauty's ev'ry charm display'd.

As thus the sultry hour she spent,
With Phaebus's beams unnerv'd and faint,
Dull Morpheus silently did creep,
And ere she knew, lull'd her asleep.

A roving wasp, pert, gaudy squire,
Struck with the fragrance of the air,
In raptur'd hurry on her lip,
The fancy'd rose-bud dew to sip,
Soft perch'd — and, ah! what bliss he drew!
Ne'er Wasp suck'd such mellifluous dew.
With joy his little bag he stor'd,
And ev'ry glitt'ring creek explor'd:
But, cruel fate! the waking maid,
Unknowing, snapt his hapless head
With deadly crash — " Revenge, " he cry'd,
Then deeply stung, and quiv'ring dy'd.
Alarm'd, she started, with a bound,
And shook her robes — but, ah! the wound,
Deep-rooted, gall'd with aching smart,
And pining pierc'd her to the heart.
She trembl'd — wept — but wept in vain;
Huge rose her lip — extreme the pain;
Till o'er her chin, with venom stung,
A monstrous fight it glist'ring hung.

'T'was then, gay beauteous Jean, no more
Unfit to speak, she shriek'd, she tore
Her fluttering dress, and inward vow'd,
If e'er her lip could be renew'd,
No careless hour should see her laid,
Inglorious, in the sun, or shade.

Ye flust'ring Beaus, and every Rake,
That read or lift around,
By this Wasp's fate example take,
Nor lag on unknown ground,
Else ye may come to mourn, too late,
And stretch your mouths, and roar,
And curse your bitter, pining fate,
When ye can sting no more.