Classic Poem

'T IS his one hope: all else that round his life
So fairly circles, scarce he numbers now.
The pride of name, a lot with blessings rife,
Determined friends, great gifts that him endow,
Are shrunk to nothing in a woman's smile:
Counsel, reproof, entreaty, all are lost,
Like windy waters which their strength exhaust,
And leave no impress; worldly lips revile
With sneer and stinging gibe; but idly by,
Unfelt, unheard, the impatient arrows fly.
Careless, he joins a parasitic train, —
Fops, fools, and flatterers, whom her arts enchain,
Nor counts aught base that may to her pertain.
Immersed in love, or what he deems is such,
The present exigence he looks to please,
Nor seeks beyond; but only strives to clutch
That which will goad his heart, but ne'er can ease:
So the drenched sailor, wrecked in Indian seas,
To some low reef of wounding coral clings
Mid slav'ry weed, and drift, and ocean scurf;
Yet heedeth not companionship of these,
But strains his quivering grasp, and stoutly swings,
Despite of lifting swell and flinging surf.