Classic Poem

Why droop my thoughts inactive, calm and low?
Or why this languor on my sinking mind?
Deaf, when from converse trifling accents flow;
I wander pensive, but no joy can find.

Ah! why does Fate congenial spirits form,
Who rush to meet each other from the eye?
In vain does Sympathy each bosom warm,
For, oh! her transports are but born to die.

Bid Silence sit upon the trembling tongue;
Yet shall the look pierce to the melting heart:
Till then unconscious, whence the sigh had sprung;
Till then unconscious, what could joy impart.

Ah, doubtful Joy! poor pleasing pain at best,
When all our soft emotions swiftly rise;
To ask Expression while the pang supprest,
To the fond heart ebbs back and silent dies.

Silence, mute blessing, covert of our woes,
Soft nurse of dear Idea, near me stay;
To thy dark bosom ev'ry sorrow flows,
On which the vulgar mind would furious prey.

Be ever mine; with thee I'll gently rove
O'er Clifton's native heights, or flow'ry plain:
And when cold Absence desert makes the Grove,
My Soul may languish, but thou still shaft reign.

Hence, ye fair fools! who noise with nonsense join,
My spirit lists not to your witless tale;
Nor will her long-lov'd Images resign,
But silent bears them to the dewy vale.

Pure is that sigh unwilling breath'd in air,
When Hope denies and Absence chills its flight;
When nought assists it but a true despair,
Ye Prudes, forgive the breast it renders light.

The Mind that's form'd to Virtue, silent mourns
The object she had dress'd in mental charms:
Yet scorns the wish with which that bosom burns,
Whom Love with wilder tumult still alarms.