Classic Poem

Triumphant Bard, my Verse inspire,
With bright A POLLO'S sparkling Fire;
To Thee , the wild Delirium runs,
Like Comets to their Centre Suns;
I feel the proud impassion'd Glow
Thro' every trilling Fibre flow;
My Muse, on Rapture's rosy Wings,
Her Harmony o'er Passion flings:
For Thee , the vivid Fancies dare,
To range the lustrous Orbs of Air;
From Star to Star their Glories trace,
And with them D ELLA C RUSCA grace.
Thou liv'st — my fetter'd Senses seem,
Deluded by some motley Dream,
That on the doubtful Slumbers plays,
Like Fairies in the pale Moon's Rays: —
Ah — let me taste thy purer Song,
Where Imagery's Beauties throng;
And as I scan the polish'd Line,
Steal the rich Fervor from thy Soul divine. —

Induct me through the hallow'd Glade,
Where Learning's mould'ring Sons are laid;
Where V IRGIL'S ancient Bust appears,
Gemm'd with mild Ev'ning's brilliant Tears,
Those Tears , by blue Olympus shed
O'er R OME'S immortal sainted Dead: —
Or where by Midnight's sparry Gloom,
Fair S APPHO bends o'er P HAON'S Tomb;
Or P ETRARCH'S Shade still loiters nigh,
To lisp his cruel L AURA'S Sigh: —
There lead me, thou delightful Muse,
To drink the chaste Olympian Dews;

With Thee to tread the classic Ground,
Where G ENIUS first the Laurel found;
To view the sacred tufted Bow'rs,
Adorn'd with gay ambrosial Flow'rs;
Derive from Thee the lucid Ray,
That dignifies the modern Lay;
My Muse with wild Ambition fire,
And bid the burning Thought to Fame aspire.

Or, I will stray by Night's pale Orb;
Whose Beams the lesser Lights absorb:
Where I NDIA'S God in secret roves,
Through the rich consecrated Groves;
Where B RAHMA pours his pious Pray'r,
To the religious, list'ning Air;
And from the Fervor of his Lays,
I'll weave a Wreath of magic Praise;
Shall circle round thy crescent Brows,
Proud Token of far distant Vows —
And should'st Thou e'er my hapless Verse peruse,
Pause on the Line, and own the simple Muse;

Say, that in Regions far from laurel'd Fame,
M ARIA wept o'er D ELLA C RUSCA'S Name;
Say, as thy Death upon the Ev'ning hung,
Unnerv'd the Sense, and petrified the Tongue,
M ARIA bound her Lyre with Sprigs of Yew,
And bath'd the Chords in Nightshade's weeping Dew;
While, as the muffled Sounds attun'd her Ear,
On its bright Threshold stood the G ENUINE T EAR —