Classic Poem

Hither your Wreaths, ye drooping Muses, bring
The short-lived Rose, that blooms but to decay;
Love's fragrant Myrtles, that in Paphos spring,
And deathless Poetry's immortal Bay.

And Oh thou gentlest Shade accept the Verse,
Mean tho' it be, and artlessly sincere,
That pensive thus attends thy silent Hearse,
And steals, in secret Shades, the pious Tear.

What Heart, by Heav'n with gen'rous Softness blest,
But in thy Lines its native Language reads?
Where hapless Love, in Classic Plainness drest,
Gracefully mourns, and elegantly bleeds.

In vain, alas, thy Fancy fondly gay
Trac'd the fair Scenes of dear domestic Life,
The sportive Loves forsook their wanton Play,
To paint for Thee the Mistress, Friend and Wife:

One caught from Delia's Lips the winning Smile,
One from her Eyes his little Soul inspir'd:
Then seiz'd thy Pen, and smooth'd thy flowing Style,
Then wept, and trembled, and with Sobs admir'd.

O luckless Lover! form'd for better Days,
For golden Years, and Ages long ago,
For Thee Persephone impatient stays,
For Thee the Willow and the Cypress grow.