Classic Poem

Stray as ye like my lambs, I care not how,
Or on the plain, or on the mountains brow;
Browse o'er the uplands, 'mongst the shaggy rocks,
Or mix unminded, with some stranger flocks;
For ah! my days of shepherding are o'er,
Since SELIMA, lov'd SELIMA'S no more;
Untun'd my pipe for ever now remains,
No more with crook, I join the playful swains;
Rich wreaths no more, I for her temple twine;
Her flow'ry garlands never more design;
By woe engross'd, shall nurse the plaintive lay,
And be thou mournful as thy master TRAY.

Stir not ye zephy'rs, cease thou babling rill,
Be mute ye warblers, and ye groves be still;
Ye sportive sylphs, that thro' the woodlands play,
Ye green-rob'd sisters of the bell'wing sea;
Renounce your customs, ever silent be,
Except ye grieve for SELIMA like me.
Those cheeks, that 'clips'd the mornings crimson hue,
And damask roses on the spangled bough;
No more the swains in rap'trous gaze delight,
(The prey of death and undeserving night:)
Lament ye graces, patrons of her youth,
Ye virtues, and thou silver-mantle truth.

Lost are those charms of which the dales have rung,
Clos'd are those eyes , that heav'n accented tongue,
No more in social converse do I hear,
All that was worthy, loving, or was dear:
Weep O ye flow'rs, that gem the joyless mead,
The pride of virgins, SELIMA, is dead!