Classic Poem

Friend of my heart! you ask in vain,
I cannot from my much lov'd lyre
Call forth the rapid, glowing strain;
Chill'd is the Muse's genial fire:
Sunk in profound repose she lies,
Lethean slumbers seal her eyes.

For see, no fair scene smiles around,
No warm sun bids the buds unclose;
No wild flowers sweet bedeck the ground,
No stream in tuneful murmurs flows;
No birds gay carol in the trees,
Nor sighs the foliage to the breeze:

But all is cheerless, bleak, and bare,
Save where just peeps the snow-drop's bell;
Chill fogs hang heavy on the air;
The blast raves loudly through the dell;
And wet, and numb'd, the toiling swain
Unwilling treads the miry plain.

Ask you, how I contrive to spend
The long-protracted gloomy hours,
Since now, no more the Muse, my friend,
Exerts her care-dispelling powers?
List: I will tell you how I strive
Far from my breast dark thoughts to drive:

If not too sternly frowns the day;
From social breakfast, when I rise,
I to the busy city stray,
And ask some politician wise—
What army's beat, what state must fall
Before the hateful anarch, Gaul?

But, much more do I love to meet
The tender friends my heart holds dear:
Delighted, to their converse sweet
I listen with attentive ear;
Till pining Sorrow sleeps awhile,
And Pleasure wakes again a smile.

There, as I gaze on Stella's eyes,
Though mute, that eloquently speak;
Hear Laura's voice like Zephyr's sighs,
And mark the bloom on Mira's cheek;
I think on her, the maid divine,
In whom these varied beauties join!

Should winds and clouds the day deform,
I bid the cheering fire blaze bright,
And, shutting out the driving storm,
From morning dawn till dusky night
I sit, like some sage wight profound,
With countless volumes scatter'd round.

Intent with curious eye, I pore
O'er many a philosophic scroll;
Search History's exhaustless store,
The deeds of elder time unroll;
See serried legions crowd the field,
And free-born states to tyrants yield.

I turn the Chian-minstrel's page,
There, brutal Diomed appears;
There stern Pelides' quenchless rage,
There sad Andromache in tears:
I sigh o'er godlike Hector's fate,
And lofty Ilion's sinking state.

Oft, rapt by Ariosto's verse,
Or his who sang on Mulla's shore,
I combat firm, with monsters fierce,
Rush to where swells the battle's roar;
Or wondering stray through fairy bowers,
Through trophied halls, and moss-clad towers.

Lo, Shakespeare waves his potent wand:
On wings of wind light spirits ride,
Embodied, at his high command,
Sons of past years before me glide:
Aw'd by the wild and solemn tones,
My soul his mighty magic owns.

With tender Petrarch, sad, I weep;
The realms of woe with Dante dare:
On venturous wing, with Milton sweep
Heaven's arch, and breathe inspiring air;
Or, hurried to the Boreal clime,
I trace the mystic Runic-rhyme.

Thus charm'd, unmark'd each moment steals,
Till roused by midnight-bell unblest,
I seek my bed;—where soft Sleep seals
My weary eyes in balmy rest;
And, glowing with each favourite theme,
I of Love, Hope, and Sorrow dream.

Inglorious now, on silent wings,
Thus moves day after day along;
But soon my lov'd lyre's slumbering strings
Will I awake; soon shall the song
Sacred to Glory's awful charms,
In rapid numbers call to arms!