Classic Poem

Beneath this mossy oak's embow'ring shade,
Where C LYDE majestic rolls his lengthen'd stream,
I've found a feat for tender sorrow made,
On which the sun ne'er shed one genial gleam.

Hail, gentle genius of this mournful bow'r!
Who mingles tears with ev'ry plaintive guest;
Say, did you ever, by your friendly pow'r,
Serene the passions of so sad a breast?

Say, skill'd in woes which ancient lovers bare,
Lovers to black oblivion long consign'd!
Can all their complicated ills compare
With my unmingled misery of mind?

When future lovers shall lament their fate,
Beneath the shadow of this aged tree,
The dismal story of my woes relate,
They'll cease to sorrow when they think of me.

Tell them, that M IRA was my earliest love;
Tell, how my humble passion she repay'd;
When lawless russians rush'd into the grove,
And forc'd to distant climes the hapless maid.

Then onward lead them to yon hillock's height,
Whose grass long-rankling drinks the sullen wave,
And, weeping, bid the verdant turfuly light,
And plant the wat'ry willow round my grave.

So may they all escape my timeless end,
And never, never, my misfortunes feel;
Ne'er lose a mistress, ne'er lament a friend,
Nor bare their bosoms to the fatal steel.