Classic Poem

When raging Summer, from his blazing throne,
Darts his fierce rays o'er all the breezeless skies,
How soft a night, the grove, to which he flies,
Flings o'er the languid fugitive from noon!
There, screen'd from Heaven's oppressive fervour, soon
His sense revives, as stretch'd at ease he lies:
Reliev'd from glare, to his recovering eyes
The sylvan scene, by graver light, is shown:
Such, pleasing Melancholy, thy bland power!
Shade of the heart! the panting soul's retreat
From scorching joys! blest is thy sombrous hour,
To Rapture's burning mood succeeding sweet!
Oh! oft may life's umbrageous scenes embower,
And shut my pensive breast from transports furious heat.