Classic Poem

‘O hide me in thy humble bower,’
(Returning late to life she said;)
I'll bind thy crook with many a flower;
With many a rosy wreath thy head.

‘Good shepherd, haste to yonder grove,
And, if my love asleep is laid,
Oh! wake him not; but softly move
Some pillow to that gentle head.

‘Sure, thou wilt know him, shepherd swain,
Thou know'st the sun rise o'er the sea—
But oh! no lamb in all thy train
Was e'er so mild, so mild as he.’

‘His head is on the wood-moss laid;
I did not wake his slumber deep—
Sweet sings the redbreast o'er the shade—
Why, gentle lady, would you weep?’

As flowers that fade in burning day,
At evening find the dew-drop dear,
But fiercer feel the noon-tide ray,
When soften'd by the nightly tear:

Returning in the flowing tear,
This lovely flower, more sweet than they,
Found her fair soul, and, wandering near,
The stranger, Reason, cross'd her way.

Found her fair soul—Ah! so to find
Was but more dreadful grief to know!
Ah! sure, the privilege of mind
Can not be worth the wish of woe.