Classic Poem

Cesario, thy Lyre's dulcet measure,
— So sweetly, so tenderly flows;
That could my sad soul taste of pleasure,
— Thy music would soften its woes.

But ah, gentle soother, where anguish
— Takes root in the grief-stricken heart;
'Tis the triumph of sorrow to languish,
— 'Tis rapture to cherish the smart.

The mind where pale Mis'ry sits brooding,
— Repels the soft touch of repose;
Shrinks back when blest Reason intruding,
— The balm of mild comfort bestows.

There is luxury oft in declining,
— What pity's kind motives impart;
And to bear hapless fate, unrepining,
— Is the proudest delight of the heart.

Still, still shall thy Lyre's gentle measure,
— In strains of pure melody flow;
While each heart beats with exquisite pleasure,
— Save mine — the doom'd victim of Woe.

Cesario, thy Lyre's dulcet measure,
— So sweetly, so tenderly flows;
That could my sad soul taste of pleasure,
— Thy music would soften its woes.

But ah, gentle soother, where anguish
— Takes root in the grief-stricken heart;
'Tis the triumph of sorrow to languish,
— 'Tis rapture to cherish the smart.

The mind where pale Mis'ry sits brooding,
— Repels the soft touch of repose;
Shrinks back when blest Reason intruding,
— The balm of mild comfort bestows.

There is luxury oft in declining,
— What pity's kind motives impart;
And to bear hapless fate, unrepining,
— Is the proudest delight of the heart.

Still, still shall thy Lyre's gentle measure,
— In strains of pure melody flow;
While each heart beats with exquisite pleasure,
— Save mine — the doom'd victim of Woe.

Cesario, thy Lyre's dulcet measure,
— So sweetly, so tenderly flows;
That could my sad soul taste of pleasure,
— Thy music would soften its woes.

But ah, gentle soother, where anguish
— Takes root in the grief-stricken heart;
'Tis the triumph of sorrow to languish,
— 'Tis rapture to cherish the smart.

The mind where pale Mis'ry sits brooding,
— Repels the soft touch of repose;
Shrinks back when blest Reason intruding,
— The balm of mild comfort bestows.

There is luxury oft in declining,
— What pity's kind motives impart;
And to bear hapless fate, unrepining,
— Is the proudest delight of the heart.

Still, still shall thy Lyre's gentle measure,
— In strains of pure melody flow;
While each heart beats with exquisite pleasure,
— Save mine — the doom'd victim of Woe.

Cesario, thy Lyre's dulcet measure,
— So sweetly, so tenderly flows;
That could my sad soul taste of pleasure,
— Thy music would soften its woes.

But ah, gentle soother, where anguish
— Takes root in the grief-stricken heart;
'Tis the triumph of sorrow to languish,
— 'Tis rapture to cherish the smart.

The mind where pale Mis'ry sits brooding,
— Repels the soft touch of repose;
Shrinks back when blest Reason intruding,
— The balm of mild comfort bestows.

There is luxury oft in declining,
— What pity's kind motives impart;
And to bear hapless fate, unrepining,
— Is the proudest delight of the heart.

Still, still shall thy Lyre's gentle measure,
— In strains of pure melody flow;
While each heart beats with exquisite pleasure,
— Save mine — the doom'd victim of Woe.