Classic Poem

Cold is the senseless heart, that never strove
With the first tumults of a real flame;
Rugged the breast that beauty cannot tame,
Nor youth's enliv'ning graces teach to love
The pathless vale, the long forsaken grove,
The rocky cave that bears the Fair-one's name
With ivy mantled o'er. — For empty fame
Let him amid the rabble toil, or rove
In search of plunder, far to western clime.
Give me to waste the hours in am'rous play
With Delia, beauteous maid! and build the rhyme,
Praising her flowing hair, her snowy arms,
And all that prodigality of charms
Formed to enslave my heart, and grace my Lay!