Classic Poem

Fair are the scenes that Nature's empire yields,
The stores that all her happy haunts adorn,
The vernal breeze of fragrance in her fields,
The smile of evening, and the blush of morn:

Fair are life's placid cares, its social hours,
Its fond endearments, and its mild repose,
The peace of pure affection's nuptial bowers,
And all the joys domestic comfort knows:

Fair are the beams of friendship's bright'ning eye,
Sweet modesty, and ignorance of art,
The soul enlarg'd of warm philanthropy,
And beauty's bloom, and youth's ingenuous heart.

Yes, they are fair, and fraught with large delight,
Yes they are themes my serious soul admires;
May Time's rude hand ne'er sweep them from my sight,
Nor quench the zeal of virtue's young desires!

Reflection comes, with truth's impartial frown,
And all the visionary scene destroys,
Tears the bright gems from Fancy's glittering crown,
And mars the prospect of our promis'd joys.

In vain the Muse hath built her fairy plan,
Severe Philosophy contracts her brow,
Th' illusion mocks, and tells unthinking man
How vain the hope of happiness below.

But tho' nor calm Reflection's form appear,
Nor sage Philosophy her lore impart,
Yet deep Experience, rugged nurse, is near
To stamp her lesson on the bleeding heart.

Behold how soon the transient scenes recede,
How soon rich Autumn's golden gleams decay,
Cold Winter desolates the pictur'd mead,
And all the bright creation fades away!

But ah! that each sweet passion should expire,
The luxury of tender thought be o'er!
Lost the soft thrill of innocent desire!
And love, and youth, and beauty be no more!

Their fleeting influence no new morn recalls,
By Death night-fetter'd in his iron cave,
No spring restores, but ruthless fate inthralls
Deep in th' eternal winter of the grave.

Oft as the tombs I trac'd with silent tread,
That lie forlorn and ev'n without a name,
And here may sleep some virtuous heart, I said,
Tho' ne'er recorded by the voice of fame.

Some Howard here may sleep, whose pitying breast
At wants and woes he could not heal, repin'd,
In his pale shroud some Hanway here may rest,
Unblest with power to benefit mankind.

See where, in dust, the orphans pale have lay'd
Their parent's couch, their parent now no more!
And the wan bride, in widow weeds array'd,
With deepest anguish her lost lord deplore!

Ah see how low the son of genius lies,
Resigns in sad obscurity his breath,
In the fair dawn of fancy doom'd to feel
The cruel, cold, arresting hand of death!

Far other prospects cheer'd his opening morn,
To hope's glad eye far other scenes arose,
Life's noon mature, which joy and fame adorn,
And her calm evening crown'd with due repose.

But him, blest youth, severer scenes await,
Sore-drooping sickness seals his mournful doom,
He lies with pangs of unrelenting fate
Opprest, and borne untimely to the tomb.

Unknown to fame (but fame he ne'er defir'd),
Far from the vale where his young steps had rov'd,
No pitying look from her his soul admir'd,
No strain of solace from the muse he lov'd.

But hark! what sound bursts on th' imperfect strain?
The bell's slow, plaintive, melancholy breath
Pours its big voice along the listening plain,
And pealing sounds the solemn knell of death:

Thee too, Aurelia, thee Death's clay-cold hand
Leads young and beauteous to his dreary bower,
For thee the graves their sacred glooms expand,
Breathe on thy bloom, and blight thy opening flower:

While yon pale maid, with sorrow-streaming eyes,
With tears that warm from wounded friendship flow,
Kneels on the turf, and O blest shade! she cries,
And bursts into an extasy of woe.

Soft Sympathy beholds; and on the scene,
Life's mournful picture, sheds the pitying tear;
Sore troublous thoughts meanwhile with anguish keen
Scize the sad soul of comfortless despair.

Yet oh, revive! behold with milder gleam
Hope's joyful dayspring in the east arise
To chear our path, till joy's immortal beam
Descend in full effulgence from the skies!

Each dark distrust, each gloomy fear dispel
From the pure breast which holy hope inspires;
Hear Addison in dying whispers tell,
Lo, in what peace a Christian's life expires!

Beyond the joys of life, beyond the tomb,
Exalt the soul to endless joys above,
Where Virtue dwells, with Beauty's heavenly bloom,
Unfading Youth, and everlasting Love.

How poor, how sunk will then these worlds appear!
Then, when yon dazzled orb shall fail to shine,
When Nature's voice no more shall charm the ear,
Lost in the spheres of harmony divine.

Reflection pains no more the musing mind,
Sad Elegy no more awakes the sigh:
Fain would I leave these transient scenes behind,
And lift a strain of triumph to the sky.