Classic Poem

Virtue , Reason's favor'd child,
The calm is thine, and not the storm;
Blest Temperance of aspect mild,
I love, dear fair, thy Heavenly form:
Tho' few thy tranquil joys have sung,
Tho' few to thee the lyre have strung;
Yet, Goddess of unalter'd charms,
I bless the hour that brought thee to my arms.

Parent of blessings, these are thine,
(And poor to thee Potosi's mine)
Thy lasting, thy unenvied Wealth,
Thy offspring—Industry and Health.
While slowly up Life's trying steeps,
Another—Independence creeps;
She that with calm and steady eye
Sees bloated Pride, when crested high;
And seated on a borrow'd throne,
Is vain of merits—not her own.

And is not thine th' unruffl'd day,
The eve serene, and slumbers sweet;
The grateful hymn—the spirits gay,
The morning's earliest dawn to meet;
The day-renewing dawn that's bliss
When Nature, with exulting voice,
Awakes to share it and rejoice;
Who would not love thee e'en for this?

And more, to me, the morning brings,
From worlds unknown on cherub wings;
The Muse that loves her welcome seat,
Partakes with thee of Reason's treat:
Not she, the Maid, of Latian line,
That silent seeks th' inflaming vine;
A baneful season's blighted fruit,
Can bid her borrow'd voice be mute.

What though Riot's torches gay,
Glare and dare they eye of Day,
And Dissipation's vot'ries laugh,
Awhile defy intruding Care:
With maniac roar, as down they quaff
The draught that gives the sick'ning stare.
What is it? but the transient bliss,
That brings the worse than serpent hiss;
Reflection's heart-corroding train,
And all the sequent host of Penury and Pain.

To thee unknown the noisy joy;
Unlike thee, for thou lov'st to bring
Th' assuaging cup from Reason's spring:
'Tis thine to comfort, not to cloy;
'Tis thine to cherish, not destroy:
The honey'd stream is thine that flows without a sting.

Dear Fair, through Life's uneven day,
(A thorny path by ills o'erspread)
'Twas thine to clear its tangl'd way,
And plant the placid Primrose in their stead.

And though to cheer Depression's child,
No generous chief, no Grafton smil'd,
No Moira that, with virtuous voice,
Would wish to bid a world rejoice;
Nor led the lov'd, the good Glencairn,
Gay Hope to Cambria's genial bairn;
Yet, thine to sooth his sunless doom,
Thou star serene in gather'd gloom.

To thee, blest Temperance, I bend,
Thy altars let me still attend,
My ONLY PATRON , earliest friend;
Without thy guiding precepts plain,
Without thy smile the sweetest strain,
The Muse's hallow'd voice had all been vain;
Cling, source of blessings, closer to my heart,
And never, never, while on earth depart.