Classic Poem

'Twas where smooth C ARTHA rolls in winding pride,
Where willows fringe young D AMON'S garden side,
And o'er the rocks the boiling current roars,
Murm'ring, to leave these peaceful, flow'ry shores,
There, sad and pensive, near an aged thorn,
Sat lone A LEXIS , friendless and forlorn.

Pale was his visage, lost to joy his ear,
Involv'd in grief, he shed the ceaseless tear.
Poor hapless Swain, alas! he mourn'd alone,
His dearest Friend, his kind Companion gone.
Each list'ning bush forgot in air to play;
Round gaz'd the flock, mute hung the peopl'd spray;
Sad Silence reign'd, while thus the Youth, distrest,
Pour'd forth the sorrows of his burden'd breast:
O'er all the plain the mournful strains pervade,
O'er all the plain a solemn sadness spread,
Nor wak'd an echo, but to murmur “dead!”
Thus sung the hapless Swain, “Short is the span
Of fleeting time, allow'd to feeble Man!
No sooner born, he fills the air with cries;
No sooner known, than pale he droops, and dies.
To-day he laughs the dancing hours away;
To-morrow lies extended lifeless clay.
While o'er the silent corpse, each weeping swain,
In anguish sigh, but sigh or weep in vain.
Such was thy fate, H ORATIO ! from this shore
Too sudden torn, ne'er to revisit more.
The rigid debt, alas! thou now hast paid;
Thee on the couch relentless Fever laid;
Thy heaving brcast, with dread disorder wrung,
And 'plaints, still trembling from thy feeble tongue;
And scarce a soul, thy frequent wants to ease,
Or soothe each moan, or whisper to thee peace,
While I, far distant, on a foreign plain,
Exulting, rov'd, unconscious of thy pain.
Oh! had I known the pangs that tore thy breast,
Had some kind pow'r but whisper'd, “He's distrest”,
Soon had I measur'd back my lonely way,
And sought the bed where poor H ORATIO lay,
Kiss'd from thy face the cold, damp, deadly dew,
And groan'd my last, distracted, long adieu.

“That dismal hour ne'er from my thought shall go,
When black appear'd the messenger of woe;
O'er all my soul a gloomy horror came,
And instant trembling shook my feeble frame.
Thy dying strains I read, still yet I hear
The solemn counsel sounding in my ear;
Words that shall tremble on my latest breath,
And only leave me when I sink in death.
Frantic with grief, twice fifty miles I sped,
O'er sev'ring seas, and gain'd his silent bed;
Each weeping friend confirm'd my gloomy fear,
That earth had clos'd on all I held most dear!
Yes, mute he lies, beneath yon rising sod,
While his lone Cot of Peace, the late abode,
Now, grim and drear, to tott'ring ruin falls,
Loud blasts, wild howling thro' the naked walls,
His flow'rs torn up, his garden bare and waste,
And I lone left, a solitary guest.

“Sad change indeed!——ye once lov'd scenes! where now
The growing bliss I felt at each fond view?
Where all that sweetness, that perfum'd each flow'r,
That bless'd our walks, and wing'd the passing hour?
For ever fled! fled with that pride of swains,
Whose presence grac'd these now forsaken plains!
When he appear'd, each warbler rais'd his note,
Each flow'r blow'd fresher, midst the peaceful spot;
Ev'n while sweet C ARTHA pass'd the smiling scene,
She smoother flow'd, and left the place with pain.
Thrice happy times! when hid from Phœbus' beam,
From that green shade we angl'd in her stream,
Or, wanton, stript, and, from the hanging shore,
Exulting, plung'd her pearly depths t' explore,
Tore from their rocky homes the pregnant dames,
And to the Sun display'd the glob'lous gems.

“But now no more, amid the peaceful night,
Beneath pale Luna's azure throned light,
We'll leave the noisy town, and slowly stray
Where shadowy trees branch on the moon-light way;
There wake the flute, harmonious, soft and shrill,
While Echo warbles from the distant hill.
Gone are those times, for which, alas! I mourn;
Gone are those times, nor shall they e'er return;
Gone is my friend, and ev'n forgot his name,
And strangers rude, his little Mansion claim;
New schemes shall tear those blooming shrubs away,
And that green sod turn down to rugged clay,
Where rich Carnations burst the pond'rous pod,
Where Pinks and Daisies fring'd the peebly road;
Where glowing Roses hung the bended spray;
And crimson'd Tulips rose, neat rang'd and gay;
Where all these bloom'd beneath their Guardian's eye,
Hogs shall inhabit, and foul dunghills lie.
Then, oh! adieu, ye now unfriendly shores,
Another Swain now claims your flow'ry stores,
A surly Swain, puff'd up with pride immense,
And see! he comes, stern to command me hence.
Thou hoary Thorn, adieu, ere 'tis too late,
Yon lifted ax seems to announce thy fate.”

Thus spoke the Youth; then, rising, ceas'd his strain,
And, wrapt in anguish, wander'd o'er the plain.