Classic Poem

BY Maria F ALCONAR .

S OFT deity of peace, whose hand divine
First taught the muse to chear my infant hours;
Oh! let me, pensive, sing what sweets are thine,
Though forn, reluctant, from thy vernal bow'rs!

The sighing gales that od'rous balms distil,
The vocal music issuing from the tree;
The lowly cottage, or the shelving hill,
Are joys that fancy only gives to me.

So the sad exile from his native shore,
Impress'd with agony, oft turns his view;
Reflects on pleasures he must feel no more,
And, ling'ring, bids his long-lov'd home adieu.

For, nature form'd me to detest the scene,
Where, still insatiate, av'rice thirsts for gain;
Or where the giddy and profuse convene,
To purchase pleasure at another's pain.

Yet, though my hopes, sweet solitude, are thine,
And fancy forms the gentle scene so clear;
I'd scorn th'ingratitude that could resign
The social converse of a friend sincere.

Not that the village throng are free from pain,
Excluded from the throb of anxious care;
Nor truth for ever decks the simple swain,
Nor conscious innocence the rural fair.

Yet, from the splendour of luxurious pride,
As from a murd'rer's hand, reflection flies;
Where guilty joys in quick succession glide,
Before whose breath the bud of honour dies.

Reflection sickens at the glitt'ring view
Of syrens, warbling from the distant shore,
To tempt the luckless wand'ier to pursue,
Who, lost in dissipation, turns no more!

E'en those, whose firmer virtues shun the snare,
Whose gen'rous souls a nobler sense inspires,
Find e'en their brightest pleasure ting'd with care,
The glow of envy or untam'd desires.

O sweeter task, to heal the pains of woe,
To succour indigence, by pride oppress'd;
To bid the genial tear of pity flow,
And pour soft comfort o'er affliction's breast!