Classic Poem

When Sol, one morn, his rays intensely shed
With scorching lustre on the traveller's head,
The young Amyntas, from his early toil,
Was home returning, loaded with his spoil;
Three beechen poles were o'er his shoulders hung,
While in his nervous hand a hatchet swung;
With heat and labour tir'd, th' industrious swain
Hastes on for shelter o'er the burning plain.
Behold a wood that straight before him lay,
Hither with ardour he pursues his way;
The spreading oaks their foliage round him bend,
And moss-grown seats relief propitious lend;
A rapid stream meander'd thro' the grove,
Where Dryad nymphs in sultry dog-days rove;
Close by whose banks an infant oak uprear'd
Its slender trunk, and languishing appear'd;
The impetuous stream had shook its tender hold,
And rudely robb'd it of the nurt'ring mould.

Amyntas saw, and with a deep fetch'd-sigh,
“Alas!” he cry'd, “'tis pity thou shouldst die,
“Ere yet thy acorns strew this verdant bed,
“Or ere thy leaves maturer beauties shed;
“Forbid it Fate! this hand shall fence thee round,
“These beechen poles shall guard thy ravag'd ground:”
Then moisten'd earth around the root he spread,
And with nice culture form'd the nursing bed.
Now pleas'd he views his toil successful prove,
And now prepares to quit the shelt'ring grove;
When, lo! a voice of soft inchanting sound
Issues he knows not whence, from tree or ground,
And calls Amyntas!—he astonish'd stands,
His hatchet falling from his trembling hands;
When thus the Syren Dryad of the oak,
For such she was, in softest accents spoke:—

Young Shepherd, gentlest of the rustic train,
“With whom compassion never pleads in vain,
“Say! what return my willing hand shall pay
“For that benevolence thy deeds display;
“Speak thy desire, shall India's wealth be thine?
“I'll fetch thee treasures from Peruvia's mine:
“I know thy wants, five ewes thy only store;
“Speak, Shepherd, speak; and I exert my pow'r.
“My favourite tree thy gentle care relieves,
“Thy timely aid revives its drooping leaves;
“With grateful ardour I attend thy will,
“Speak but thy wish, and I that wish fulfil.”

‘O! sacred Nymph, the Shepherd thus returns,
‘For sordid wealth my bosom never burns;
‘But if, indeed, thy kind indulgent care
‘Attends my will, and waits to crown my pray'r;
‘Restore Palemon to his wonted health,
‘Friendship like his exceeds all other wealth;
‘Drooping, since harvest, more and more he bends;
‘Restore, O! gentle Nymph, the best of friends.’

The wond'ring Dryad heard the gen'rous pray'r,
And made the Shepherds her peculiar care;
Palemon gladdens in returning health,
The good Amyntas finds increase of wealth;
And, as the Gods benevolence approve,
They shower'd unnumber'd blessings from above.