Classic Poem

While recent, young, and weak, the unripe seeds
Of those dire cares which have their rise from Love,
Ere yet in rank luxuriance strong and wild
They flourish, crush, and from the incipient ill
Forewarned, retreat; prudent if from the yoke
Ungalled thy neck may be withdrawn. Nor think
The danger distant if no warning pangs
Give friendly notice of its dread approach.
At first, with scanty flow the tinkling rill
Drips from the rock; then oozing through green moss,
Or over pebbles chiming, gently winds
Along its undistinguished path, while flowers
A while adorn its course; anon, with rains
And neighb'ring founts augmented, down the rock
It drives with broader channel; till at length
By many a torrent's tributary stream,
By mighty waters swelled, along the plain
Through mountain wilds, through desarts waste and drear,
Through empires black with shade, it rolls along,
Impetuous, deep, and strong; before its sweep
Rocks, woods, and all the harvest's waving stores
Fall flat, and blasted are the hopes of man.

But hard it is to combat with a foe
So fair in its approach; for soft, and bland,
And pleasant, are the first preluding fires
That Love lights up, while sweet and sunny smiles
Entice us to the shade of secret bowers,
To gather blossoms and inhale fresh sweets.
Meanwhile by sure degrees the growing flame
Creeps silently along, the inmost veins
Receive its poison, and the' infected heart
With nimbler pulses throbbing, now no more
Denies admittance; then the torrent force
Of whelming passion pours upon the soul,
And whirls in its dark eddies all the strength
Of reason, judgment, and maturer thought.
So 'neath the North, in that cold sea whose wave
In sullen murmurs 'mid the glittering cliffs
And ever-sounding heights of Moskoe sounds,
A current, gentle first, with stealing haste
Ripples the busy waters; crowding on
From wide circumference, soon the quickening stream
Towards its centre rushes; then begins
The curling foam in playful eddies round
To whirl unceasing, and the sweeping waves
To rise with higher surge; till headlong, full,
And rapid, on they rush to where, with gulf
Unfathomed, and dire vortex, Maelstrom yawns.
Caught in the fury of the torrent's force,
Bellows the vast Leviathan, and fills
The echoes of ten thousand rocks around
With uncouth roar, and from his nostril pours
The gathered brine, while his incessant fin
Vexes the foaming waters; na'th'less, whelmed
Deep in the' abyss, the torrent draws him down.

When once the soul in tenderness dissolved
Has lost the tone elastic, and the spring
Of active firmness, from all nature round
The evil gathers aid; and then the mind,
Distempered, with his own false hue imbues
Whate'er each sense embraces; day and night
Alike provoke the' immedicable ill;
In trees, in flowers, in streams, in vernal skies,
The moon's soft beam, or odoriferous gales
Love's victim still finds fuel for his flame,
Something that sharpens all the stings anew,
That pierce his heart, and deeper round him twines
The' inextricable snare, and as the mood
Of passion varies, as the sweets of hope,
Or pangs of dark despair possess his soul,
He traces still, with fond retentive care,
Some apt memorial of his flame; in flowers
He sees the live carnation that adorns
His idol's cheek, in their rich odours tastes
The fragrance of her breath, and in the maze
Of melody that runs through all the grove
He hears the echoed music of her voice.
Thus he augments his frenzy, and the flame
Esteemed the pride and glory of his heart.

But most in the deep calm of solitude,
Amid the silent shade of twilight groves,
The softened soul drinks in the poisoned sweet,
Unconscious of its bane, when o'er the plain
More warm, more wanton, bland Favonius breathes.

Nor with less fatal certainty the charm
Speeds to the heart when, sighing through the sedge
That waves along the margin of some pool,
The whispering breeze is heard, or the rich strain
Of midnight melody that thrills the grove
When to the moon the Attic warbler pours
The sweet effusion of her swelling throat.

Oh, Music! potent spell, that hand in hand
Walkest with forceful energy of song,
Who may assail with hostile strain the lute,
The golden harp by Phaebus and the Choir
Of dark haired Muses loved? When harmony,
Waked by the master's touch, from sprightly strings
Enchanting rises, who may shut his heart
Against the magic numbers? When the flute,
Soft-breathing, pours its even melody,
Who may forbid his ravished soul to melt,
And languish with the lay?
But thou, whose cheek
Is flushed with feverish heat, whose pulse, alarmed,
Throbs when before thy sight the maid beloved
Stands unexpected; thou, whose gaze, whose sighs
Pursue her steps departing, O avoid
To lend thy ear to sweetly-flowing strains,
To thee as perilous as the song of old
Sung by Leucosia and her sisters twain,
When, dancing on the wave, their golden locks
They showed to Anticlea's wily son,
As he along that false Ausonian shore
His bark directed . . . . . Rather to the pomp
Of martial music, or the hand that wakes
The high tremendous strain that shakes the soul,
Attend . . . . . Such strains in Thessaly's deep groves
Resounded, when in midnight's witching hour,
With cymbals, sounding orichalch, and drums,
Dark-stoled magicians to the lab'ring moon
Did horrid rites, to draw her from her sphere. . . . .
Such strains were heard when from the shades of Tyre,
From Ammon's groves the priests of Moloch drove
The nymphs and blue-eyed Loves, and with the stain
Unclean of blood, profaned their secret bowers:
Their orgies shunned the day, but when the Moon,
Darkling and dim, revealed with dubious light
But half their horrors, then, with frantic bound,
The choir of priests the blasted earth about
Shook; while they loudly raised the timbrelled song
Amid the glare of livid flames that rose
Fast from their idol's furnace; high was reared
Amid the circling gloom the grisly king,
With smoke and mixed blood smeared, his fiery arm
LIfted to grasp the living sacrifice,
The babe by ruthless parents doomed to flames;
Loud yelled the impious crew to drown the cries
Of him consuming, and the cymbal's clang
Rang through the woods, and shook the echoing caves.

Let leisure be denied, and straight the stings
Of fierce desire have lost their sharpest pangs.
Love only seizes on our vacant hours;
Therefore at early morn, at noon, at eve,
And o'er the midnight oil, studious revolve
The deep recondite page of ancient lore,
Plato's majestic pomp, the purity
Of lucid Xenophon, the energy
Concise and strong of sage Olorides;
Nor yet the might masters of the lyre
Pass thou neglectful; let the' immortal strain
Of Homer fire thy soul; and the bold flight
Of him whose swelling dithyrambic song
Placed in the stars the skilful, strong, or swift,
Victorious in the toil of Pisa's strife.

Nor will it less behove thee on the tower
That science loves, to keep thy frequent watch,
What time the radiant Moon in Heaven's mid way
Hangs her nocturnal lamp; there, hand in hand,
With contemplation to behold the orbs
Of whirling planets, that with speedy wheel
Perform their stated rounds; while with them roll
In lucid circles their fair satellites,
Companions of their travel; then thine eye
May drink the glittering radiance of each star
That gives its brightness to that splendid path
Shining with milky lustre, every star
That, given by man to many-fabled groups,
Peoples the figured Zodiac, where the wing
Of eagle never yet was dipped in air.

Well sung the Bards of old, who in the woods,
On heaths, in mountain forests gave to dwell,
Armed with the flexile yew and quivered steel,
The virgin patroness of Chastity.
Therefore the' enervate tenderness of Love,
Its bane, its snares voluptuous, would'st thou shun,
While yet the breeze of morn across the plain
Refreshing sweeps, while yet the early dews
Hang on the thicket, forth, amid the song
Of thousand birds that carol to the dawn,
Let the steed bear thee. Hark! the welkin rings
With jovial shouts of men, with neighing steeds,
And all the' harmonious thunder of the chase.
From hill to dale, through all the woodland pours
The cry tumult'ous, Zephyrs waft it round,
The horn's deep music floats along the vale,
And wakes the secret echoes of the hills.
Roused by the cheering gladness of the scene,
The soul shakes off her languor, and the load
Inglorious of those ever-gnawing cares
Which lately held the heart a shackled slave;
The spirits dance and sparkle in the eyes,
And the distempered flush that tinged the cheek
Is changed for health's pure rosy hue....Such power
To quell the languid sickness of desire,
Its poison, its intoxicating charms,
Is found in exercise and active use.

If not too deep Love's venomed shaft hath pierced,
Flight from the source from which the poison flows
May bring relief: and happy he who 'scapes,
Though flying, all Love's plagues! happy, though far
From friends most dearly prized, though far from home,
From native soil, and clime; whether the shades
That round Ontario's ample bosom spread
Receive his steps, the plains that Ganges laves,
The banks of Niger, or the untrod wilds
Where Nilus swelling from his secret fount
Begins his course; so absence banish love.

Nursed in Idalian groves, amid the bloom
Of fragrant roses, lulled by the sweet chime
Of waters, and the murmured strain of doves,
That build amid his mother's myrtle bowers,
The God of Love to sloth and ease invites,
And woos to win the patient and the brave
From all the toil and labour of the great.
But from the din of arms, the blaze of steel,
The banner's waving crimson, plumed helms,
The' attire of battle, and the clarion's voice,
He shrinks away dismayed. Those female bands
Once by Marpesia led 'gainst Caucasus,
From Thermodon's red wave with clang of shields
Drove the scared deity, and, of his rites
Unmindful, slew their weak unwarlike lords.

As Love from Glory and from Honour shrinks,
So they in turn avoid the walks of Love;
And never on the flowery couch of Sloth
Amid the roses is the laurel found,
The olive, or the palm. The bold, the brave,
Pay the full price of honour....toil and care.
Then turn to deeds of high emprise, to arms,
And martial deeds; behold the pomp of war,
The glittering phalanx; let thy ear drink in
The trumpet's thrilling voice, the clang, the shout
That from the battle rises when the strife
Most highly rages; place before thy soul
The brave of other days, who led the fight
Beneath the pressure of the habergeon,
The cuirass, and the helm; for whom the voice
Of all their country raised the choral song.
Nor him forget, Tydides, whose bold spear,
Red with immortal blood, back to her skies
Wounded and screaming drove the Queen of Love.
Then if bright Honour on her craggy seat
Aloft displays unveiled her radiant face,
And beckons to advance, undaunted then
Attempt the dangerous enterprise, and climb
The rugged heights to grasp the rich reward.