Classic Poem

Far away, where Tanais flows,
Had you been a Scythian's wife —
Yet to see a man expose,
At your cruel doors, his life,
To the northern blasts a prey,
Might have fill'd you with dismay.

Hear you not the creaking door,
How the winds, in ruffian haste,
Make the grove-trees howl and roar
Round the piles of Attic taste;
And how Jove, with purer air,
Glazes snow that settles there!

To the queen of softer mould
Cast away ungrateful pride,
Lest you chance to lose your hold,
When the knot of love's unty'd.
You're not of the Tuscan breed,
Right Penelope indeed. —

Tho' nor bribes nor pray'rs prevail
On that harden'd breast of thine,
Nor complexion, violet-pale,
Nor your spouse, who, 'midst his wine,
Wounded by the vocal art
Of a minstrel, yields his heart;

Spare, yet spare your suppliant swains,
Rougher than th'obdurate oak, —
Or the snakes, which Moorish plains
To severer spite provoke —
Constitution cannot last,
Thus to bear the stormy blast.