Classic Poem

O FOR the warblings of the doric ote,
That wept the youth deep-wheim'd in ocean's tide!
Or Mulla's muse, who chang'd her magic note
To chant how dear the laurell'd Sidney died!
Then should my woes in worthy strain be sung,
And with due cypress-crown thy herse, O Frederic, hung.

But though my novice-hands are all too weak
To grasp the sounding pipe, my voice unskill'd
The tuneful phrase of poesy to speak,
Uncouth the cadence of my carols wild;
A nation's tears shall teach my song to trace
The Prince that deck'd his crown with every milder grace.

How well he knew to turn from flattery's shrine,
To drop the sweeping pall of sceptred pride;
Led by calm thought to paths of eglantine,
And rural walks on Isis' tufted side;
To rove at large amid the landskips still,
Where Contemplation sate on Clifden's beech-clad hill!

How, lock'd in pure affection's golden band,
Through sacred wedlock's unambitious ways,
With even step he walk'd, and constant hand,
His temples binding with domestic bays:
Rare pattern of the chaste connubial knot,
Firm in a palace kept, as in the clay-built cot!

How with discerning choice, to nature true,
He cropp'd the simple flowers, or violet,
Or crocus-bud, that with ambrosial hue
The banks of silver Helicon beset:
Nor seldom wak'd the Muse's living lyre
To sounds that call'd around Aoma's listening quire!

How to the Few with sparks ethereal stor'd,
He never barr'd his castle's genial gate,
But bade sweet Thomson share the friendly board,
Soothing with verse divine the toil of state!
Hence fir'd, the Bard forsook the flowery plain,
And deck'd the regal masque, and tried the tragic strain.