Classic Poem

Near yon bleak mountain's dizzy height,
— That hangs o'er Avon's silent wave;
By the pale Crescent's glimm'ring light,
— I sought Lorenzo's lonely grave.

O'er the long grass the silv'ry dew,
— Soft Twilight's tears spontaneous shone;
And the dank bough of baneful yew
— Supply'd the place of sculptur'd stone.

Oft, as my trembling steps drew near,
— The airy voice of Fancy gave
The plaint of Genius to mine ear,
— That, lingering, murmur'd on his grave.

" Cold is that heart, where honour glow'd,
— And Friendship's flame sublimely shone,
And clos'd that eye where Pity flow'd,
— For ev'ry suff'ring but his own.

" That form where youth and grace conspir'd,
— To captivate admiring eyes,
No more belov'd, no more admir'd,
— A torpid mass neglected lies.

" Mute is the music of that tongue,
— Once tuneful at the voice of love,
When Orpheus, by his magic song,
— Taught trees, and flinty rocks to move.

" Oft shall the pensive Muse be found,
— Sprinkling with flow'rs his mould'ring clay;
While soft-eyed Sorrow wand'ring round,
— Shall pluck intruding weeds away. "

Sad victim of the sordid mind,
— That doom'd Thee to an early grave;
Ne'er shall Her breast that pity find,
— Which thy forgiveness nobly gave!

Thou, who, when Sorrow's icy hand
— Forbad the healthsome pulse to flow,
Obedient to her stern command,
— With meek submission bow'd thee low!

And when thy faded cheek proclaim'd
— The thorn that rankled in thy breast,
Thy steady soul that pride maintain'd,
— Which marks the godlike mind distress'd!

Nor was thy mental strength subdu'd,
— When Hope's last ling'ring shadows fled,
Unchang'd, thy dauntless spirit view'd
— The dreary confines of the dead!

And when thy penetrating mind,
— Life's thorny maze presum'd to scan,
In ev'ry path condemn'd to find
— " The low ingratitude of man. "

Indignant would'st thou turn away,
— And smiling raise thy languid eye,
And oft thy feeble voice would say,
— " To me 'tis happiness to die. "

And tho' thy Friend, with skilful art,
— To heal thy woes, each balm apply'd;
Tho' the fine feelings of his heart,
— Nor cost nor studious care deny'd!

He saw the fatal hour draw near,
— He saw Thee fading to the grave;
He gave his last kind gift, a Tear,
— And mourn'd the worth he could not save.

Nor could the ruthless breath of Fate
— Snatch from thy grave the tender sigh;
Nor a relentless monster's hate
— Impede thy passage to the sky.

And tho' no kindred tears were shed,
— No tribute to thy memory giv'n;
Sublime in death, thy spirit fled,
— To seek its best reward — in Heaven!

Near yon bleak mountain's dizzy height,
— That hangs o'er Avon's silent wave;
By the pale Crescent's glimm'ring light,
— I sought Lorenzo's lonely grave.

O'er the long grass the silv'ry dew,
— Soft Twilight's tears spontaneous shone;
And the dank bough of baneful yew
— Supply'd the place of sculptur'd stone.

Oft, as my trembling steps drew near,
— The airy voice of Fancy gave
The plaint of Genius to mine ear,
— That, lingering, murmur'd on his grave.

" Cold is that heart, where honour glow'd,
— And Friendship's flame sublimely shone,
And clos'd that eye where Pity flow'd,
— For ev'ry suff'ring but his own.

" That form where youth and grace conspir'd,
— To captivate admiring eyes,
No more belov'd, no more admir'd,
— A torpid mass neglected lies.

" Mute is the music of that tongue,
— Once tuneful at the voice of love,
When Orpheus, by his magic song,
— Taught trees, and flinty rocks to move.

" Oft shall the pensive Muse be found,
— Sprinkling with flow'rs his mould'ring clay;
While soft-eyed Sorrow wand'ring round,
— Shall pluck intruding weeds away. "

Sad victim of the sordid mind,
— That doom'd Thee to an early grave;
Ne'er shall Her breast that pity find,
— Which thy forgiveness nobly gave!

Thou, who, when Sorrow's icy hand
— Forbad the healthsome pulse to flow,
Obedient to her stern command,
— With meek submission bow'd thee low!

And when thy faded cheek proclaim'd
— The thorn that rankled in thy breast,
Thy steady soul that pride maintain'd,
— Which marks the godlike mind distress'd!

Nor was thy mental strength subdu'd,
— When Hope's last ling'ring shadows fled,
Unchang'd, thy dauntless spirit view'd
— The dreary confines of the dead!

And when thy penetrating mind,
— Life's thorny maze presum'd to scan,
In ev'ry path condemn'd to find
— " The low ingratitude of man. "

Indignant would'st thou turn away,
— And smiling raise thy languid eye,
And oft thy feeble voice would say,
— " To me 'tis happiness to die. "

And tho' thy Friend, with skilful art,
— To heal thy woes, each balm apply'd;
Tho' the fine feelings of his heart,
— Nor cost nor studious care deny'd!

He saw the fatal hour draw near,
— He saw Thee fading to the grave;
He gave his last kind gift, a Tear,
— And mourn'd the worth he could not save.

Nor could the ruthless breath of Fate
— Snatch from thy grave the tender sigh;
Nor a relentless monster's hate
— Impede thy passage to the sky.

And tho' no kindred tears were shed,
— No tribute to thy memory giv'n;
Sublime in death, thy spirit fled,
— To seek its best reward — in Heaven!