Classic Poem

In yonder green wood blows the Broom;
Shepherds, we'll trust our flocks to stray,
Court Nature in her sweetest bloom,
And steal from care one summer-day.

From him whose gay and graceful brow
Fair-handed Hume with roses binds,
We'll learn to breathe the tender vow,
Where slow the fairy Fortha winds.

And oh! that he whose gentle breast
In Nature's softest mould was made,
Who left her smiling works imprest
In characters that cannot fade;

That he might leave his lowly shrine,
Though softer there the seasons fall—
They come, the sons of verse divine,
They come to Fancy's magic call.

———‘What airy sounds invite
My steps not unreluctant, from the depth
Of Shene's delightful groves? Reposing there
No more I hear the busy voice of men
Far-toiling o'er the globe—save to the call
Of soul-exalting poetry, the ear
Of death denies attention. Rous'd by her,
The genius of sepulchral silence opes
His drowsy cells, and yields us to the day.
For thee, whose hand, whatever paints the spring,
Or swells on summer's breast, or loads the lap
Of autumn, gathers heedful—Thee whose rites
At Nature's shrine with holy care are paid
Daily and nightly, boughs of brightest green,
And every fairest rose, the god of groves,
The queen of flowers, shall sweeter save for thee.
Yet not if beauty only claim thy lay,
Tunefully trifling. Fair philosophy,
And Nature's love, and every moral charm
That leads in sweet captivity the mind
To virtue—ever in thy nearest cares
Be these, and animate thy living page
With truth resistless, beaming from the source
Of perfect light immortal—Vainly boasts
That golden Broom its sunny robe of flowers:
Fair are the sunny flowers; but, fading soon
And fruitless, yield the forester's regard
To the well-loaded Wilding—Shepherd, there
Behold the fate of song, and lightly deem
Of all but moral beauty.’

———‘Not in vain’—
I hear my Hamilton reply
(The torch of fancy in his eye)
‘'Tis not in vain,’ I hear him say,
‘That Nature paints her works so gay;
For, fruitless though that fairy Broom,
Yet still we love her lavish bloom.
Cheer'd with that bloom, yon desert wild
Its native horrors lost, and smil'd,
And oft we mark her golden ray
Along the dark wood scatter day.
Of moral uses take the strife;
Leave me the elegance of life.
Whatever charms the ear or eye,
All beauty and all harmony
If sweet sensations these produce,
I know they have their moral use.
I know that Nature's charms can move
The springs that strike to Virtue's love.’