Classic Poem

TO THE SHADE OF PETRARCH, AND TO THE SPIRITS OF THE PERSIAN POETS ,

Boast of Italian plains, that once did'st rove
Where lucid Sorga leads her winding wave
From its deep fountain in Valclusa's grove,
Whose lavish laurels in her waters lave,

Thou, who so oft hast struck the silver shell
To hopeless Love, and wedded L AURA'S charms,
See passing ages yet enchanted dwell,
On thy sweet verse, and feel thy soft alarms!

Ah! sacred shade of that enamour'd youth,
Still shall thy myrtles bloom with fairest hue,
While one kind tear descends from tender Truth,
Again each fading blossom to renew.

But share those myrtles with that minstrel bland,
Whose skill afresh hath strung thy silver lyre,
And taught the echoes of his native land
The plaint harmonious of thy fond desire.

With him your bright poetic honours share,
You that awaked the song on Mithra's plains,
Breath'd your wild warblings on the fragrant air,
And at the fount of light illumed your strains.

The veils that hid you thro' the rounds of time
From European eyes, are torn away,
And all the fire of oriental rhyme
Glows in our isle with undiminish'd ray.

Spirits of eastern bards, where'er shall rove
Your British guardian, from your musky vales,
Sun-hallow'd hills, and each odorous grove,
Bring the rich incense that perfumes your gales!

O'er his young head the spicy treasures blend,
And from your brightest gems a crown obtain!
On him may all the tribute stores descend
Who hung with Persian wreaths the Albion Muses' fane!