Classic Poem

  J. This “Triumph” by our friend is wanton soft:
But there 's high matter in the sea-nymph's story,
Which might become a painter's pencil well.
He should have drawn the Cyclop,—as he sate
Uplifted like a crag, and piped his songs
Of Galatea to the watery shores.
Some say that, Orpheus-like, he charm'd dull stones,
Made Ocean murmur, and the airy winds
Took captive; and 'tis known, he sigh'd and sang
The deathful ditties which belong to love;
And call'd on Galatea:—She, the while,
Lay mute, and closed (if e'er she heard his strains)
Her soul againsThis passion. Day by day,
He sang; and, like the mateless lark, call'd forth
The dawn; and underneath the burning noon
Held fiery celebration; and at eye,
Fatigued by sorrow and wild song,—he wept.