Classic Poem

AN ODE .

" S pared by the sickle, springs the ripening grain,
Tranquil the vine-branch drinks the sun-warm rain,
Nor dreads the wine-press 'neath the summer sky;
And I, like them, with youth and beauty bless'd,
What though in gloom the present hour is dress'd,
Still — still — so soon I would not wish to die!

" To death the tearless Stoic may walk forth,
For me, I weep and hope. If blows the north,
I bow and raise my head, the storm o'erblown!
Life has its days of sorrow and of joy;
What sweetest honey yet did never cloy? —
What sea so calm no storm has ever known?

" A fruitful fancy dwelleth in my brain,
On me the darksome dungeon weighs in vain,
On Hope's bright wings I soar and flee away.
The nightingale, escaped the fowler's snare,
More light, more happy, through the fields of air
Soareth and singeth all the summer day.

" And can I die? Tranquil I sink to rest,
Tranquil I wake; and o'er my happy breast
Remorse ne'er darkly broods, by day or night;
My welcome beams in every eye around,
And even here some care-worn bosoms bound,
As if my smile recalled a past delight!

" Far, far from me my pleasant journey's end! —
Of those young elms that o'er life's highway bend
Scarce have I pass'd the group that foremost stands;
At life's delicious banquet, scarce begun,
One precious drop my lips have only won
From out the cup still full within my hands.

" Still in my spring I wish to see the glow
Of autumn's fruits, and, like the sun, to go
Through all the seasons of life's changing year.
Bright on my stem the garden I adorn,
I but have seen the cheering fires of morn, —
I would complete my day, however drear!

" Death! thou canst wait — depart, do thou depart,
Go to console some bruised or broken heart —
Quick to some pale despairing sufferer fly;
For me has Nature many a green retreat,
The Muse her concerts, Love her kisses sweet:
So soon, O Death! I would not wish to die! "

Thus in my melancholy cell I hear
Those sweet complaints — that voice so soft and clear —
Those wishes of a tender captive maid,
Short'ning my days so languid and so long;
I bend beneath the gentle laws of song
The natural music that her sweet lips made.

These songs, sweet witnesses of prison'd hours,
Will make some student leave the classic bowers
Of learned ease to seek this captive's name.
Grace deck'd her forehead, shone in every phrase,
And those who near her pass away their days,
Will weep her fate and fear their own the same.