Classic Poem

Be this Philander's praise,—a well-tuned mind,
Lofty as man, and more than woman kind;
A virgin soul which, spotless yet and bright,
Keeps all the lustre of its native white.
Virtue in him from no cold precept flow'd,
But with a vigorous, genuine ardour glow'd;
So pure his feelings and his sense so strong,
Seldom his head, his heart was never wrong;
Gentle to others, to himself severe,
And mild from pity only, not from fear.
Tender yet firm, and prudent without art,
The sweetest manners and the gentlest heart.
If in so fair a mind there reign'd a fault,
'Twas sensibility too finely wrought,
Too quickly roused, too exquisite for peace,
Too deeply thoughtful for unmingled ease.
His griefs were like his joys, too far refined
To reach the dull or touch the selfish mind;
Yet the pure sorrows that on virtue grow,
Taste of the sacred spring from which they flow.