Classic Poem

Under precipice of shade
Crept a pure and silver brook,
Slow the pace its currents took,
Winding round the banks it made.

There on moss impearl'd with dew,
Tired winds had gone to rest;
And the channel to molest,
Not a root its barrier threw.

All I ask'd the Sylvan Power
Was Oblivion's calm repose;
When the River's Nymph arose,
Pointing at a secret bower.

There, unsully'd by a tear,
Bright as Morning's purple ray,
On a bed of Roses lay
She — that slept — and could not hear.