Classic Poem

The tortur'd eyes, in pity for the heart,
Have suffer'd all the agony of tears;
Their pain is the condolence they impart,
Their pride is the distress that Love endears.

But, hopeless the oppression to dispel,
That weighs me down, and yet suspends the tomb;
Impatient, though despairing to rebel,
I prompt the Muse, and she records my doom.

Ye fair! your audience I again implore;
You gave attention to the living theme:
With you the parted spirit I deplore,
And share the honours of my waking dream.

To none but such as Passion's wounds can feel,
My soul its proud affections can impart;
The sudden wing's ethereal path reveal,
Or trace Devotion as the Mourner's part.

By Angels — Beatrice to Heaven is claim'd,
There, like her own, immortal spirits rest;
Nor heat , nor cold , for this departure blam'd,
But, ripe for its reward, the soul was bless'd.

Her glowing sweetness, though it shunn'd the day,
Her bright humility that blush'd unseen;
Found in the path of bliss their destin'd way,
And rose above the earth's degrading scene.

The Heaven-born soul abjur'd her beauteous veil,
The mirrour of her own superior grace;
Fled on the pinions of the Zephyr's gale,
And with applauding Angels took her place.

But where 's the eye, contemplating her shade,
That prompts no tear, her ashes to adorn!
Or where — of sternest mould that creature made,
Who hears the dirge, and brands the name with scorn.

'Tis true, that sorrows wild and keen despair
Cling to the sigh, and feed the jealous tear;
When Memory's officious notes declare
The Saint that rose, and left her votaries here.

When Love renews the charm that smiles no more,
His fading colour marks the vain desire;
His tears their frantic impotence deplore,
Though Beauty's ashes prompt their sacred fire.

But if, upon her image more intent,
I trace its glittering skirts with brighter view;
In pride of anguish from the world I 'm rent,
And shades of Solitude by choice pursue.

There in the desert, and the caves of Night,
I call on Beatrice with piercing cries;
I ask her, " if no more she 'll bless the light, "
And greet her vision with uplifted eyes.

The passenger, who notes my wither'd form,
Starts at the hideous ruins that appear;
Explores the wreck that brav'd the pelting storm,
And consecrates the Pilgrim's welcome tear.

Nor tongue of others nor of mine can tell
The weight of sorrow 'tis my doom to bear;
My lips are such as claim the passing bell;
Yet pious Hope can trust — an Angel's care .

Go, melancholy song, and greet the fair,
For whom thy Sisters had the note of Joy;
Go, child of Sorrow! and, accepted there,
With rival strains the pensive theme employ!