Classic Poem

O'er the blue violet , while the amorous wind
Bends, and perfumes his wings, to fan this day;
Why has pale sickness winter'd o'er my mind,
And, with chill agues , check'd the warmth of May ?

Is it not C LIO'S birth-day? — Toil of thought!
Height, beyond all, that e'er ambition trod.
Sum of refin'd desire! by angels taught,
To look, and think, and act, a female god !

Oh! my rapt soul , sits trembling in my eyes ,
Starting, impatient, at her pow'rful name:
Dearer, than life , to that sweet sound it flies,
And health rides rosy, on the living flame .

Wak'd into sudden strength, I blaze again,
Love , the restorer, dress'd in Clio 's smile,
Triumph'd o'er nature , gave delight to pain ,
Sweeten'd affliction , and could death beguile.

May joys un-number'd, as the charmer's sweets ,
Bless this revolving day's eternal round;
'Till the proud world its dawn , with rapture greets ,
Conscious of her , who made it first renown'd.

Long — let 'em say — long, e're our father's days,
Three thousand years ago, on this sweet day,
That Clio , whom contending nations praise,
Embloom'd, by her sweet birth, the first of May .

Britain , illustrious by the starry lot ,
Far, in the north , distinguish'd island, lies,
Now known by later names — oh, envy'd spot!
Why did she not in our warm climates rise?

Sure, she was heav'nly grac'd! for, to this hour,
After such length of ages roll'd away!
Fame of her charms , augments her sex's pow'r,
And her thought's lustre gives our wits their sway.