Classic Poem

Sweet Child of Reason! maid serene;
With folded arms, and pensive mien,
Who wand'ring near yon thorny wild,
So oft, my length'ning hours beguil'd;
Thou, who within thy peaceful cell,
— Canst laugh at Life's tumultuous care,
While calm repose delights to dwell
— On beds of fragrant roses there;
Where meek-ey'd Patience waits to greet
The woe-worn Trav'ller's weary feet,
'Till by her blest and cheering ray
The clouds of sorrow fade away;
Where conscious Rectitude retires;
Instructive Wisdom; calm Desires;
Prolific Science, — lab'ring Art;
And Genius, with expanded heart.

Far from thy lone and pure domain,
— Steals pallid Guilt, whose scowling eye
Marks the rack'd soul's convulsive pain,
— Tho' hid beneath the mask of joy;
Madd'ning Ambition's dauntless band;
Lean Avarice with iron hand;
Hypocrisy with fawning tongue;
Soft Flatt'ry with persuasive song;
Appall'd in gloomy shadows fly,
From Meditation's piercing eye.

How oft with thee I've stroll'd unseen
O'er the lone valley's velvet green;
And brush'd away the twilight dew
That stain'd the cowslip's golden hue;
Oft, as I ponder'd o'er the scene,
— Would mem'ry picture to my heart,
How full of grief my days have been,
— How swiftly rapt'rous hours depart;
Then would'st thou sweetly reas'ning say,
" Time journeys thro' the roughest day. "

The Hermit, from the world retir'd,
By calm Religion's voice inspir'd,
Tells how serenely time glides on,
From crimson morn, 'till setting sun;
How guiltless, pure, and free from strife,
He journeys thro' the vale of Life;
Within his breast nor sorrows mourn,
Nor cares perplex, nor passions burn;
No jealous fears, or boundless joys,
The tenor of his mind destroys;
And when revolving mem'ry shows
The thorny world's unnumber'd woes;
He blesses Heav'n's benign decree,
That gave his days to Peace and Thee.

The gentle Maid, whose roseate bloom
Fades fast within a cloyster's gloom;
Far by relentless Fate remov'd,
From all her youthful fancy lov'd;
When her warm heart no longer bleeds,
And cool Reflection's hour succeeds;
Led by thy downy hand, she strays
Along the green dell's tangled maze;
Where thro' dank leaves, the whisp'ring show'rs
Awake to life the fainting flow'rs;
Absorb'd by Thee, she hears no more
The distant torrent's fearful roar;
The well-known Vesper's silver tone;
The bleak wind's desolating moan;
No more she sees the nodding spires,
Where the dark bird of night retires;
While Echo chaunts her boding song
The cloyster's mould'ring walls among;
No more she weeps at Fate's decree,
But yields her pensive soul to Thee.

The Sage, whose palsy'd head bends low
'Midst scatter'd locks of silv'ry snow;
Still by his mind's clear lustre tells,
What warmth within his bosom dwells;
How glows his heart with treasur'd lore,
How rich in Wisdom's boundless store;
In fading Life's protracted hour,
He smiles at Death's terrific pow'r;
He lifts his radiant eyes, which gleam
With Resignation's sainted beam:
And, as the weeping star of morn,
Sheds lustre on the wither'd thorn,
His tear benign, calm comfort throws,
O'er rugged Life's corroding woes;
His pious soul's enlighten'd rays
Dart forth, to gild his wint'ry days;
He smiles serene at Heav'n's decree,
And his last hour resigns to Thee.

When Learning, with Promethean art,
Unveils to light the youthful heart;
When on the richly-budding spray,
The glorious beams of Genius play;
When the expanded leaves proclaim
The promis'd fruits of rip'ning Fame;
O Meditation, maid divine!
Proud Reason owns the work is thine.

Oft, have I known thy magic pow'r,
Irradiate sorrow's wint'ry hour;
Oft, my full heart to Thee hath flown,
And wept for mis'ries not its own;
When pinch'd with agonizing Pain,
My restless bosom dar'd complain;
Oft have I sunk upon thy breast,
And lull'd my weary mind to rest;
'Till I have own'd the blest decree,
That gave my soul to Peace and Thee.

Sweet Child of Reason! maid serene;
With folded arms, and pensive mien,
Who wand'ring near yon thorny wild,
So oft, my length'ning hours beguil'd;
Thou, who within thy peaceful cell,
— Canst laugh at Life's tumultuous care,
While calm repose delights to dwell
— On beds of fragrant roses there;
Where meek-ey'd Patience waits to greet
The woe-worn Trav'ller's weary feet,
'Till by her blest and cheering ray
The clouds of sorrow fade away;
Where conscious Rectitude retires;
Instructive Wisdom; calm Desires;
Prolific Science, — lab'ring Art;
And Genius, with expanded heart.

Far from thy lone and pure domain,
— Steals pallid Guilt, whose scowling eye
Marks the rack'd soul's convulsive pain,
— Tho' hid beneath the mask of joy;
Madd'ning Ambition's dauntless band;
Lean Avarice with iron hand;
Hypocrisy with fawning tongue;
Soft Flatt'ry with persuasive song;
Appall'd in gloomy shadows fly,
From Meditation's piercing eye.

How oft with thee I've stroll'd unseen
O'er the lone valley's velvet green;
And brush'd away the twilight dew
That stain'd the cowslip's golden hue;
Oft, as I ponder'd o'er the scene,
— Would mem'ry picture to my heart,
How full of grief my days have been,
— How swiftly rapt'rous hours depart;
Then would'st thou sweetly reas'ning say,
" Time journeys thro' the roughest day. "

The Hermit, from the world retir'd,
By calm Religion's voice inspir'd,
Tells how serenely time glides on,
From crimson morn, 'till setting sun;
How guiltless, pure, and free from strife,
He journeys thro' the vale of Life;
Within his breast nor sorrows mourn,
Nor cares perplex, nor passions burn;
No jealous fears, or boundless joys,
The tenor of his mind destroys;
And when revolving mem'ry shows
The thorny world's unnumber'd woes;
He blesses Heav'n's benign decree,
That gave his days to Peace and Thee.

The gentle Maid, whose roseate bloom
Fades fast within a cloyster's gloom;
Far by relentless Fate remov'd,
From all her youthful fancy lov'd;
When her warm heart no longer bleeds,
And cool Reflection's hour succeeds;
Led by thy downy hand, she strays
Along the green dell's tangled maze;
Where thro' dank leaves, the whisp'ring show'rs
Awake to life the fainting flow'rs;
Absorb'd by Thee, she hears no more
The distant torrent's fearful roar;
The well-known Vesper's silver tone;
The bleak wind's desolating moan;
No more she sees the nodding spires,
Where the dark bird of night retires;
While Echo chaunts her boding song
The cloyster's mould'ring walls among;
No more she weeps at Fate's decree,
But yields her pensive soul to Thee.

The Sage, whose palsy'd head bends low
'Midst scatter'd locks of silv'ry snow;
Still by his mind's clear lustre tells,
What warmth within his bosom dwells;
How glows his heart with treasur'd lore,
How rich in Wisdom's boundless store;
In fading Life's protracted hour,
He smiles at Death's terrific pow'r;
He lifts his radiant eyes, which gleam
With Resignation's sainted beam:
And, as the weeping star of morn,
Sheds lustre on the wither'd thorn,
His tear benign, calm comfort throws,
O'er rugged Life's corroding woes;
His pious soul's enlighten'd rays
Dart forth, to gild his wint'ry days;
He smiles serene at Heav'n's decree,
And his last hour resigns to Thee.

When Learning, with Promethean art,
Unveils to light the youthful heart;
When on the richly-budding spray,
The glorious beams of Genius play;
When the expanded leaves proclaim
The promis'd fruits of rip'ning Fame;
O Meditation, maid divine!
Proud Reason owns the work is thine.

Oft, have I known thy magic pow'r,
Irradiate sorrow's wint'ry hour;
Oft, my full heart to Thee hath flown,
And wept for mis'ries not its own;
When pinch'd with agonizing Pain,
My restless bosom dar'd complain;
Oft have I sunk upon thy breast,
And lull'd my weary mind to rest;
'Till I have own'd the blest decree,
That gave my soul to Peace and Thee.