Classic Poem

Now thrice mild Cynthia, with her silver wain,
Yon star-bespangled concave did surround;
And thrice to men her full-face shewed plain,
And thrice descended to infernal ground,
Yet still in lonely forest was I found;
At length on me kind fortune deign'd to smile,
And thro' the wilds my toilsome road I wound,
Then roam'd the track 'tween Ganges and the Nile,
And hardy deeds achiev'd befitting knightly stile.