Classic Poem

VOL. 2, C ANTIQUE 144

There 's not an Eccho round me,
 But I am glad should learn
How pure a fire has found me,
 The Love with which I burn.
For none attends with pleasure
 To what I would reveal;
They slight me out of measure,
 And laugh at all I feel.

The rocks receive less proudly
 The story of my flame;
When I approach, they loudly
 Reverberate my name.
I speak to them of sadness,
 And comforts at a stand;
They bid me look for gladness,
 And better days at hand.

Far from all habitation,
 I heard a happy sound;
Big with the consolation
 That I have often found;
I said, “my lot is sorrow,
 My grief has no alloy;”
The rocks replied—“to-morrow,
 To-morrow brings thee joy.”

These sweet and secret tidings,
 What bliss it is to hear!
For, spite of all my chidings,
 My weakness and my fear,
No sooner I receive them,
 Than I forget my pain,
And happy to believe them,
 I love as much again.

I fly to scenes romantic,
 Where never men resort;
For in an age so frantic,
 Impiety is sport;
For riot and confusion,
 They barter things above;
Condemning, as delusion,
 The joy of perfect Love.

In this sequester'd corner
 None hears what I express;
Deliver'd from the scorner,
 What peace do I possess!
Beneath the boughs reclining,
 Or roving o'er the wild,
I live, as undesigning,
 And harmless as a child.

No troubles here surprise me,
 I innocently play,
While providence supplies me,
 And guards me all the day;
My dear and kind defender
 Preserves me safely here,
From men of pomp and splendour,
 Who fill a child with fear.