Classic Poem

While I with fond officious care,
For you my chorded shell prepare,
And not unmindful frame an humble lay,
Where shall this verse my C YNTHIO find,
What seene of art now charms your mind,
Say, on what sacred spot of Roman ground you stray?

Perhaps you cull each valley's bloom,
To strew o'er V IRGIL'S laurell'd tomb;
Whence oft at midnight echoing voices sound;
For at that hour of silence, there
The shades of ancient bards repair,
To join in choral song his hallow'd urn around:

Or wander in the cooling shade
Of Sabine bow'rs, where H ORACE stray'd,
And oft' repeat in eager thought elate,
(As round in classic search you trace
With curious eye the pleasing place)
“That fount he lov'd, and there beneath that hill he fate.”

How longs my raptur'd breast with you
Great R APHAEL'S magic strokes to view,
To whose blest, hand each charm the Grace gave!
Whence each fair form with beauty glows
Like that of Venus , when she rose
Naked in blushing charms from O CEAN'S hoary wave.

As oft by roving fancy led
To smooth O LITUMNUS ' banks you tread,
What awful thoughts his fabled waters raise!
While the low-thoughted swain, whose flock
Grazes around, from some steep rock
With vulgar disregard his mazy course surveys.

Now thro' the ruin'd domes my Muse
Your steps with eager flight pursues,
That their cleft piles on T YBER'S plains present,
Among whose hollow-winding cells
Forlorn and wild R OME'S G ENIUS dwells,
His golden sceptre broke, and purple mantle rent.

Oft to those mossy mould'ring walls,
Those caverns dark, and silent halls,
Let me repair by midnight's paly fires;
There muse on Empire's fallen state,
And frail Ambition's hapless fate,
While more than mortal thoughts the solemn scene inspires.

What lust of pow'r from the cold North
Could tempt those Vandal-robbers forth,
Fair I TALY , thy vine-clad vales to wast?
Whose hands profane, with hostile blade,
Thy story'd temples dar'd invade,
And all thy Parian seats of Attic art defac'd!

They, weeping A RT in fetters bound,
And gor'd her breast with many a wound,
And veil'd her charms in clouds of thickest night;
Sad P OESY , much-injur'd maid,
They drove to some dim convent's shade,
And quench'd in gloomy mist her lamp's resplendent light.

There long she wept, to darkness doom'd,
'Till C OSMO'S hand her light relum'd,
That once again in lofty T ASSO shone,
Since has sweet S PENSER caught her fire,
She breath'd once more in M ILTON'S lyre,
And warm'd the soul divine of S HAKESPEAR , Fancy's son.

Not she, mild queen, will cease to smile
On her B RITANNIA'S much-lov'd isle,
Where these her best, her favourite Three were born,
While T HERON warbles Grecian strains,
Or polish'd D ODINGTON remains,
The drooping train of arts to cherish and adorn.