Classic Poem

The tuneful lark awakes the purple morn,
Returning plovers glad the dreary waste;
The trees no more their ravish'd honours mourn,
No longer bend below the wint'ry blast.

The Spring o'er all her genial influence sheds,
Her smelly fragrance scents the balmy breeze;
Her op'ning blossoms purple o'er the meads,
Her vivid verdure veils the robbed trees.

The airy cliff resounds the shepherd's lay;
Within it's banks the murm'ring streamlet flows
Around their dams the sportive lambkins play,
And from the stall the vacant heifer lows.

The voice of music warbles from the wood,
Delightful objects croud the smiling scene;
All nature shares the universal good,
And cold despair exalts no breast but mine.

Dismal to me appears the bloomy vale,
The haunts of pleasure sadden at my tread;
Unheard, unnoted, vernal zyphers sail
The flow'ry waste, and bend the quiv'ring reed.

No more, enraptur'd with successful love,
I fit my numbers to the tuneful string;
No more pourtray the verdure of the grove,
Or hear the voice of iscense-breathing Spring.

The torrents, whiten'd with descending rain,
The wave-worn windings of the wand'ring rill,
The flow'ry flush that liv'ries all the plain,
The blue-grey mist that hovers o'er the hill,

I sing no more:—But ravish'd from the maid
Who kindly listen'd to my faithful sighs,
I, inly grieving, droop the pensive head,
And mourn the bliss relentless fate denies.