Classic Poem

To thee whom Albion's distant shore detains,
And mirth and song accost in various strains,
I send all health—Oh hear my humble lay,
And with one smile my anxious love repay.

For me, not whispers of the rising gale,
Breath'd from the south to chear the frozen vale;
Nor gently sloping shores where naids lave,
And shells are polish'd by the lashing wave;
Nor rivers gliding by the flow'ry meads,
Whose silver currents sparkle thro' the reeds;
Nor sprightly spring, nor autumn fill'd with stores;
Nor summers coverts in sequester'd bow'rs,
Can yield a pleasure, while the dear lov'd youth,
For whom my soul preserves eternal truth,
Is absent from Cesaria's fertile plain,
And gentle echo bears my sighs in vain.

The goat shall cease the mountains top to graze,
The fish for land shall leave their native seas,
The bees no more the flow'ry thyme shall taste,
Nor thirsty harts to limpid streams shall haste,
When I forget the sacred vow to bind,
Or put thy dear idea from my mind;
My mind—so late the seat of joy sincere,
Thy absence makes a prey to gloomy care.
My flowers—in vain they court my friendly hand,
Left in their beds the wintry blasts to stand;
For thee—the lily bloom'd, the garden's pride,
And blushing hyacinths with roses vied;
For thee—I tortur'd every fruit that grew,
To make the season ever smile anew:
But now untouch'd upon their boughs they die,
And lose their flavour ere they tempt my eye;
While pensive in each silent shade I mourn,
And count the tedious hours till thou return.