Classic Poem

On yon orient hill the setting sun
Now feebly beams the faint remains of day,
Once more his course diurnal, Sol has run,
And sable night's calm entry we survey.
He sets when now fair Cynthia 'gins to rise
With milder ray, to chear the pensive shade,
Unnumber'd twinkling orbs bedeck yon skies,
And beauties infinite are round display'd.
Shine on, blest orbs! ye work of hands divide,
Long may your changes human joys renew;
For me, alas! unnotic'd still you shine,
Your glorious splendours I no more shall view;
Now far around night's sable veil extends,
And universal deepest silence reigns;
To sleep's soft touch the wearied peasant bends,
And freed from cares, repose her court maintains;
Save where the ever wakeful mind of woe
In silent, secret melancholy mourns;
Whose cares no interval of quiet know,
For whom no dawn of happiness returns:
Yes, 'tis a painful long and dreary night,
Since last the light with gladness cheer'd these eyes,
And sadly recogniz'd is each delight,
That printed in remembrance faintly lies;
Thrice happy days! ye scenes of youthful joy,
Which recollection now but more endear,
When every hour and moment could employ
The heart with raptures and the bosom cheer;
Ye cloud capt mountains and ye waving woods,
Ye verdant hills and dales once fair to view,
Ye varied landskips and ye foaming floods,
To you, alas, I bid a long adieu!
The song of gladness, and the jocund dance,
With pleasures emulous each to excel,
And beauties that could every heart entrance,
To you I bid an endless sad farewell!
No more your pleasings pleasure can impart,
Remember'd raptures bring no fresh delight,
Those charms no more can soothe the sadden'd heart,
Obscur'd in endless woe and endless night!
O could the powerful hand of fate restore
The joys of youth, with all its peaceful train,
Then human life were bliss, unwanting more,
And age would loose occasion to complain:
But Heaven all-wise, has differently decreed,
And thus has plann'd the sum of human bliss,
That pleasure might with mingl'd pains succeed
That to reflect upon, and look for this;
To teach us whilst life's devious course we tread,
How little real joy on earth is given,
T' inform the heart by virtuous dictates led,
To hope more perfect happiness in Heaven;
Cheer'd by that hope, with fortitude conjoin'd,
The way-worn soul bear's up against her woes,
Still to th' eventful hand of fate resign'd,
Assur'd at last of undisturb'd repose.
What tho' the far-extended gloom of night,
With all its train of fancied horrors rise,
What tho' no morning sun shall glad my sight,
Or scenes of festive mirth engage my eyes:
Yet still submissive to that wise decree,
Of him whose hand supports wide nature's frame,
I bend to him whose mercy thinks on me,
Confess his goodness and protection claim:
That when the transcient dream of life is o'er,
When all its cares and vanities are past,
I may be wafted to that peaceful shore,
Where joy unbounded shall for ever last.