Classic Poem

Thou com'st, fair daughter of the Spring!
Ah! must I shun thee, lovely May?
No more to thee sweet incense bring,
Or deck thy shrine with chaplets gay?

Far distant from thy sportive train,
Must I to some lone rock retreat?
There to the curling waves complain,
Who, pitying, wash my weary feet,

That I no more with pleasure see
Thy various beauties, lovely May, —
The op'ning flow'r, the blossom'd tree,
The roseat blush of rising day.

That when bright Cynthia's silver beams
Give splendor to the murky night,
Cheerless and faint their lustre gleams,
While sorrow dims my aching sight.

That I no more can tune the lyre,
To hail thy presence, lovely May, —
For joy and love no more inspire
The heart-enliv'ning roundelay.

For while pale Grief around me flings
Her sable chilling veil of woe,
My trembling hands will jar the strings, —
My gushing tears will o'er them flow.

How long must I my fate deplore!
Oh! wouldst thou bless me, lovely May,
My dear , my absent swain restore,
Whose voice can chase despair away.

He can extract grief's rugged thorn,
That rankles in my faithful breast, —
Can heal my soul, by anguish torn,
And soothe tumultuous fears to rest.

Thy sacred rites, with joy I'll keep.
If thou wilt bring him, lovely May!
The silver strings I'll gayly sweep,
And hail thee with a jocund lay!