Classic Poem

Here let us pause: — the opening prospect view: —
How fresh this mountain air! — how soft the blue,
That throws its mantle o'er the length'ning scene!
Those waving groves — those vales of living green —
Those yellow fields — that lake's cerulean face,
That meets, with curling smiles, the cool embrace
Of roaring torrents, lull'd by her to rest; —
That white cloud, melting on the mountain's breast;
How the wide landscape laughs upon the sky!
How rich the light, that gives it to the eye!
Where lies our path? — though many a vista call,
We may admire, but cannot tread them all.
Where lies our path! — a poet, and inquire
What hills, what vales, what streams become the lyre!
See, there Parnassus lifts his head of snow;
See at his foot, the cool Cephissus flow;
There Ossa rises; there Olympus towers;
Between them, Tempe breathes in beds of flowers,
Forever verdant; and there Peneus glides
Through laurels whispering on his shady sides.
Your theme is Music: — Yonder rolls the wave,
Where dolphins snatch'd Arion from his grave,
Enchanted by his lyre: — Citheron's shade
Is yonder seen, where first Amphion play'd
Those potent airs, that, from the yielding earth,
Charm'd stones around him, and gave cities birth.
And fast by Haemus, Thracian Hebrus creeps
O'er golden sands, and still for Orpheus weeps,
Whose gory head, borne by the stream along,
Was still melodious, and expired in song.
There Nereids sing, and Triton winds his shell;
There be thy path — for there the Muses dwell.
No, no — a lonelier, lovelier path be mine:
Greece and her charms I leave, for Palestine.
There, purer streams through happier valleys flow,
And sweeter flowers on holier mountains blow.
I love to breathe where Gilead sheds her balm;
I love to walk on Jordan's banks of palm;
I love to wet my foot in Hermon's dews;
I love the promptings of Isaiah's muse:
In Carmel's holy grots, I'll court repose,
And deck my mossy couch, with Sharon's deathless rose.