Classic Poem

The moon shines silv'ry on the limpid stream,
Scarce blush the flow'rs, in fainter dyes array'd;
The howlets, rousing at the friendly beam,
With lazy pinions scour the dusky glade.

The time-struck turret, on yon mountain's brow,
Projecting wide, embrowns the lowly vale;
The spiry column lessens to the view,
And bluish clouds the scatter'd huts conceal.

The younglings, ravish'd from the fleece-clad ewes,
Wake plaintive bleatings from the turf-built fold;
The moon-scar'd heifer hollow-murm'ring lows,
And drony beetles noisy wings unfold.

The lapwing, clam'rous, seeks her vary'd race,
Along the heath she shoots on sounding wing;
From where yon firs their shaggy sharp tops raise,
The widow'd turtles doleful dirges sing.

But who is this, with slowly-sliding step,
Walks lonely wand'ring by this streamlet's shore?
Perhaps some luckless lover, doom'd to weep
A mistress absent, or, a maid no more.

Perhaps, in sad similitude of woe,
His sigh-shook frame is borne to yonder grove;
Hapless! to bid the briny torrents flow,
O'er many a scene of recollected love.

Tis S TREPHON .—Ah! how languid roll his eyes!
Death's livid liv'ry lengthens o'er his cheeks;
So pale, so woe-begone, vex'd spirits rise,
At this dread hour—But hark!—the fantom speaks.

“It was, N EÆRA ! in a night like this,
As calm the air, as clear the conscious moon;
The midnight mourner sung our mutual bliss,
And rivers lull'd us, as they slowly run:

When you around me threw your velvet arms,
Moist roll'd your eye, wild heav'd your snowy breast,
And gentle spoke, while redden'd all your charms,
Words well remember'd, for you spoke and kiss'd.

Ere Strephon cease, in love's alluring garb,
To be N EÆRA'S dearest chief delight,
Shall cease yon twinkling stars—that glorious orb,
With silv'ry radiance to adorn the night.

But what avail, N EÆRA ! all thy vows,
The soft endearments of thy faithless tongue,
Since for another all thy beauty glows,
Heaves thy fair breast, and warbles forth thy song?

The captive, fetter'd with the galling chain,
Immur'd in dungeons, and remote from day,
Should bright ey'd hope her cheering influence deign,
The slug-furr'd concave echoes to his joy.

But hope no more illumes the suture hour,
Despair invests it with her dismal shade;
Soon lay me low shall death's tremendous pow'r,
“In long oblivion of the bridal bed.”

I need no poison blended with the bowl;
No wound red-streaming from the pointed steel,
Grief chills the living vigour of my soul,
And round my heart death's leaden hand I feel.”