Classic Poem

Close by the Margin of a silver Flood,
There stands a lofty venerable Wood;
Where many of both Sexes daily walk,
For Contemplation some, and some for Talk.
Hither Cornelia did with me repair,
And whilst we prais'd the Calmness of the Air,
Nature, methought, did for a Change prepare.
The glorious Sun his quick'ning Beams withdrew,
And blust'ring Boreas solemn Breezes blew:
Sweet Philomel began a doleful Strain,
And shapeless Echo did again complain:
The feather'd Quire sad Anthems chant around,
The Hills, and Vales, the doleful Noise resound.
A sudden Horrour! both our Souls inspir'd,
The Cause we fear'd, the wond'rous Signs admir'd.

When Lo! young Bacchus with his Train appear'd,
Silenus, Midas, and the Rustick Herd:
No verdant Ivy circled in his Head,
Nor Panther's Skin was o'er his Shoulders spread.
But clad in Black, he slowly march'd before,
And silently express'd the Grief he bore.
Next came a Velvet Hearse adorn'd with Ew,
Which Six most beauteous sable Horses drew,
And wept, as if their Master's Death they knew.
The mourning Swains in Crouds assisted there,
And Nymphs, and Satyrs, did conclude the Rear.

Then up I stepp'd, of one who lagg'd behind,
Ask'd, for whom was that Pomp of Wo design'd?
Eliza! Ha cried She! canst thou stand by,
And see him dead without a weeping Eye?
Unmov'd, canst thou behold Gramponio's End,
Th' adopted Brother! and thy Father's Friend?
Know then, by yonder Fountain in that Shade,
Midas a noble Compotation made,
And thither good Gramponio did invite,
The fatal Time, alas, was Yesternight!
He came — — and in the Middle of the Feast — —
Enough, said I, you shall omit the rest:
To my dull Grotto, will I now return,
And in sad Numbers for Gramponio mourn.