Classic Poem

— — Come, bright-eyed maid,
— — Pure offspring of the tranquil mind,
— — Haste, my fev'rish temples bind
— — With olive wreaths of mdash'rald hue
— — Steep'd in morn's ethereal dew,
— — Where in mild Helvetia's shade,
— — Blushing summer round her flings
Warm gales and sunny show'rs that hang upon her wings.

— — I'll seek thee in Italia's bow'rs,
— — Where supine on beds of flow'rs
— — Melody's soul-touching throng
Strike the soft lute or trill the melting song:
— — Where blithe Fancy, queen of pleasure,
— — Pours each rich luxuriant treasure.
— — For thee I'll climb the breezy hill,
— — While the balmy dews distill
— — Odours from the budding thorn,
— — Drop'd from the lust'rous lids of morn;
— — Who, starting from her shad'wy bed,
Binds her gold fillet round the mountain's head.

— There I'll press from herbs and flow'rs
— Juices bless'd with opiate pow'rs,
— — Whose magic potency can heal
— The throb of agonizing pain,
— — And thro' the purple swelling vein
— With subtle influence steal:
— — Heav'n opes for thee its aromatic store
— — To bathe each languid gasping pore;
But where, O where, shall cherish'd sorrow find
The lenient balm to soothe the feeling mind.

— — O, mem'ry! busy barb'rous foe,
— — At thy fell touch I wake to woe:
— — Alas! the flatt'ring dream is o'er,
— — From thee the bright illusions fly,
— — Thou bidst the glitt'ring phantoms die,
And hope, and youth, and fancy, charm no more.

— No more for me the tip-toe Spring
— Drops flowrets from her infant wing;
— For me in vain the wild thymes bloom
— Thro' the forest flings perfume;
— — In vain I climb th' embroider'd hill
— To breathe the clear autumnal air;
— — In vain I quaff the lucid rill
— Since jocund Health delights not there
— To greet my heart: — — no more I view,
— With sparkling eye, the silv'ry dew
Sprinkling May's tears upon the folded rose,
As low it droops its young and blushing head,
Press'd by grey twilight to its mossy bed:
— No more I lave amidst the tide,
— — Or bound along the tufted grove,
— — Or o'er enamel'd meadows rove,
— — Where, on Zephyr's pinions, glide
Salubrious airs that waft the nymph repose.

— — Lightly o'er the yellow heath
— — Steals thy soft and fragrant breath,
— — Breath inhal'd from musky flow'rs
— — Newly bath'd in perfum'd show'rs.
— — See the rosy-finger'd morn
— — Opes her bright refulgent eye,
— — Hills and valleys to adorn,
While from her burning glance the scatter'd vapours fly.

— — Soon, ah soon! the painted scene,
— — The hill's blue top, the valley's green,
— — Midst clouds of snow, and whirlwinds drear,
— — Shall cold and comfortless appear:
— — The howling blast shall strip the plain,
— — And bid my pensive bosom learn,
— — Tho' Nature's face shall smile again,
— — And, on the glowing breast of Spring
— — Creation all her gems shall fling,
— — Youth's April morn shall ne'er return.
— Then come, Oh quickly come, Hygeian Maid!

— Each throbbing pulse, each quiv'ring nerve pervade.
— Flash thy bright fires across my languid eye,
— Tint my pale visage with thy roseate die,
— Bid my heart's current own a temp'rate glow,
And from its crimson source in tepid channels flow.

— O Health, celestial Nymph! without thy aid
— Creation sickens in oblivions shade:
— Along the drear and solitary gloom
— We steal on thorny footsteps to the tomb;
— Youth, age, wealth, poverty alike agree
— To live is anguish, when depriv'd of Thee.
— To Thee indulgent Heav'n benignly gave
— The touch to heal, the extacy to save.
— The balmy incense of thy fost'ring breath
— Wafts the wan victim from the fangs of Death,
— Robs the grim Tyrant of his trembling prize,
— Cheers the faint soul, and lifts it to the skies.

— Let not the gentle rose thy bounty drest
— To meet the rising sun with od'rous breast,
— Which glow'd with artless tints at noon-tide hour,
— And shed soft tears upon each drooping flower,
— With with'ring anguish mourn the parting Day,
— Shrink to the Earth, and sorrowing fade away .

— — Come, bright-eyed maid,
— — Pure offspring of the tranquil mind,
— — Haste, my fev'rish temples bind
— — With olive wreaths of mdash'rald hue
— — Steep'd in morn's ethereal dew,
— — Where in mild Helvetia's shade,
— — Blushing summer round her flings
Warm gales and sunny show'rs that hang upon her wings.

— — I'll seek thee in Italia's bow'rs,
— — Where supine on beds of flow'rs
— — Melody's soul-touching throng
Strike the soft lute or trill the melting song:
— — Where blithe Fancy, queen of pleasure,
— — Pours each rich luxuriant treasure.
— — For thee I'll climb the breezy hill,
— — While the balmy dews distill
— — Odours from the budding thorn,
— — Drop'd from the lust'rous lids of morn;
— — Who, starting from her shad'wy bed,
Binds her gold fillet round the mountain's head.

— There I'll press from herbs and flow'rs
— Juices bless'd with opiate pow'rs,
— — Whose magic potency can heal
— The throb of agonizing pain,
— — And thro' the purple swelling vein
— With subtle influence steal:
— — Heav'n opes for thee its aromatic store
— — To bathe each languid gasping pore;
But where, O where, shall cherish'd sorrow find
The lenient balm to soothe the feeling mind.

— — O, mem'ry! busy barb'rous foe,
— — At thy fell touch I wake to woe:
— — Alas! the flatt'ring dream is o'er,
— — From thee the bright illusions fly,
— — Thou bidst the glitt'ring phantoms die,
And hope, and youth, and fancy, charm no more.

— No more for me the tip-toe Spring
— Drops flowrets from her infant wing;
— For me in vain the wild thymes bloom
— Thro' the forest flings perfume;
— — In vain I climb th' embroider'd hill
— To breathe the clear autumnal air;
— — In vain I quaff the lucid rill
— Since jocund Health delights not there
— To greet my heart: — — no more I view,
— With sparkling eye, the silv'ry dew
Sprinkling May's tears upon the folded rose,
As low it droops its young and blushing head,
Press'd by grey twilight to its mossy bed:
— No more I lave amidst the tide,
— — Or bound along the tufted grove,
— — Or o'er enamel'd meadows rove,
— — Where, on Zephyr's pinions, glide
Salubrious airs that waft the nymph repose.

— — Lightly o'er the yellow heath
— — Steals thy soft and fragrant breath,
— — Breath inhal'd from musky flow'rs
— — Newly bath'd in perfum'd show'rs.
— — See the rosy-finger'd morn
— — Opes her bright refulgent eye,
— — Hills and valleys to adorn,
While from her burning glance the scatter'd vapours fly.

— — Soon, ah soon! the painted scene,
— — The hill's blue top, the valley's green,
— — Midst clouds of snow, and whirlwinds drear,
— — Shall cold and comfortless appear:
— — The howling blast shall strip the plain,
— — And bid my pensive bosom learn,
— — Tho' Nature's face shall smile again,
— — And, on the glowing breast of Spring
— — Creation all her gems shall fling,
— — Youth's April morn shall ne'er return.

— Then come, Oh quickly come, Hygeian Maid!
— Each throbbing pulse, each quiv'ring nerve pervade.
— Flash thy bright fires across my languid eye,
— Tint my pale visage with thy roseate die,
— Bid my heart's current own a temp'rate glow,
And from its crimson source in tepid channels flow.

— O Health, celestial Nymph! without thy aid
— Creation sickens in oblivions shade:
— Along the drear and solitary gloom
— We steal on thorny footsteps to the tomb;
— Youth, age, wealth, poverty alike agree
— To live is anguish, when depriv'd of Thee.
— To Thee indulgent Heav'n benignly gave
— The touch to heal, the extacy to save.
— The balmy incense of thy fost'ring breath
— Wafts the wan victim from the fangs of Death,
— Robs the grim Tyrant of his trembling prize,
— Cheers the faint soul, and lifts it to the skies.

— Let not the gentle rose thy bounty drest
— To meet the rising sun with od'rous breast,
— Which glow'd with artless tints at noon-tide hour,
— And shed soft tears upon each drooping flower,
— With with'ring anguish mourn the parting Day,
— Shrink to the Earth, and sorrowing fade away .