Classic Poem

In the fair blank that now, like some new bay
In life's vague ocean, opens with to-day,
Couldst thou but write, dear lady, at thy will,
All thou wouldst choose of good, or shun of ill,
As on this paper thou mayst fill the space
With thoughts and wishes gentle as thy face,
Thou couldst not crowd the days that are to be
With happier fortune than I hope for thee.

For, if the saint that keeps the book above
Which holds the record of thy life and love,
Where at one view thy childhood and thine age,
Thy past and future, gleam upon the page,
Should trust his volume to my hand, and say,
Write for Augusta all you ask or pray,
All that twelve moons may bring of peace and bliss,
Then would I register some fate like this:

Health, first of all, that every morn may find
The same bright casket for the same clear mind,
And every night bring such repose, that care
May find no triumph in one altered hair.

Affection then, the same thou still hast known,
Such as would shudder at a careless tone,
And count it selfishness to have a grief
That in thy sharing did not seek relief.

Next golden leisure, to enjoy the sun,
With one to worship, and but only one;
With him to tread the solitude, and then
No less securely try the ways of men;
To move in crowds, yet keep the calm within,
Still amid noise, and spotless amid sin.