Classic Poem

Fallacious nymph, who here by stealth,
Would seem to be the goddess Health!
Mask'd in that divine disguise,
Think'st thou to 'scape poetick eyes?
Back, Siren—for I know thou'st stray'd,
From the harmonious ambuscade;
Where many a traveller, that took
The invitation of thy look,
Has felt the coz'nage of thy charms,
Tickled to death within thy arms
Know, that I saw you yester-night,
At once with horror and delight,
Drag Luna from her heavenly frame,
And out-shine her when she came.
Yes, inchantress, I can tell
How by the virtue of a spell,
Cloath'd like cherub-innocence,
Here you fix your residence;
That securely you may mix
Your philters in the streams of Styx;
And have at hand, in every part,
Materials for your magic art,
Fossils, fungus's, and flow'rs,
With all the fascinating pow'rs.
God of the prescribing trade,
Doctor Phœbus, lend thine aid;
If thou'lt some antidote devise,
I'll call thee Harvey of the skies;
Or (for, at one glance, thou can'st see
All that is, or that shall be,
Intentions rip'ning into act,
And plans emerging up to fact)
Look in her eyes, and thence explain
All the mischief that they mean.
Say in what grove, and near what trees
Will she seek the Hippomanes.
There, there I'll meet her,—there I'll try
Th' asswasive pow'r of harmony.
I think I've got an amulet,
That will her rage awhile abate.
No—all resistance is in vain—
Charmer I yield—I hug my chain:
Alas! I see 'tis to no end
With such puissance to contend;
For since continually you dwell
In that apothecary's cell;
And while so studiously you pry
Into the sage dispensary,
And read so many doctors bill,
You learn infallibly to kill—