Classic Poem

I.

Celinda, riding, in a snowy day,
The wind-driv'n flakes, about her, hov'ring, flew,
Some to her tempting bosom, made their way,
And, melting, chill'd her beauties through and through.

II.

Some, aiming with less art, her cloaths beset,
And froze to little buttons, as they fell;
Others, which could not such fair quarters get,
Flew by, unblest, and miss'd the shiv'ring belle .

III.

Quite tir'd, at last, and, freezing, as she rode,
Her ivory teeth all chattering, in her head;
Was ever such a day, she cry'd? good God!
If it much longer snows, I shall be dead.

IV.

Madam, said I, 'tis true; your lovely breast
Is far more us'd to give, than suffer pain;
Yet, of this accident, to make the best,
'Tis better I should preach , than you complain .

V.

All nature's works, in some degree, alike ,
Confess the wisdom of their maker's will,
And bear hid meanings, man's dark mind to strike,
With mystic hints, that try comparing skill.

VI.

Thus, some, with envy fill'd, envenom'd look,
And gnaw themselves , when happier men they see!
Some can success, in others, gladly brook,
Tho' they, perhaps, steep'd o'er, in misery, be.
Others, again, by outward winds, unshook,
All chances, but their own, indifferent, see.

VII.

So, my Celinda , 'tis, with this sharp snow ;
Those feath'ry flakes have, each, a sev'ral aim;
The envy-acted see your bosom glow,
And rush, malicious, to assault the flame.

VIII.

But, shock'd, to find themselves, when nested there,
So far exceeded, in their boasted white;
With melting grief, their humbled pride they bear,
And weep themselves to death, to shun the sight.

IX.

Others, of this white tribe, that see, and know,
With rev'rence, shun that bliss-warm'd breast of thine,
But strive t' adorn thy dress, with some new show,
And, froze to glitt'ring gems, about thee shine.

X.

A third sort, unattracted ev'n by thee ;
And cold, indeed, such snow we ought to call;
With dull indiff'rence , all thy charms can see,
And, disregardful, round thee, scatt'ring, fall.

XI.

Celinda , list'ning, answer'd, with a smile,
You Poets keep your fancies always warm;
Could but this inward heat the frost beguile,
We need not stop, at yonder smoaky farm .