Classic Poem

Father of old oblivion, hail !
 Restrain thy swift-revolving glass ;
If soothing verse can ought avail,
 To charm thy moments as they pass.
 Still shall I let thee onward glide,
 To wast me down thy boundless tide,
 And unimprov'd remain my soul,
When twenty-one quick summers from me thou hast stole ?

Adieu ! amusements of my youth,
 My childhood and my boyish days !
For virtue, probity, and truth,
 I quit my sports and frolic lays !
 Yet will remembrance bring to view,
The years, in playful bliss, that flew,
 When careless of the passing hours,
My whistle sweet I blew, or cull'd the muse's flow'rs !

Then oft in Schuylkill's silver wave,
 Or Delaware's majestic tide,
My limbs, delighted, would I lave,
 Or thro' the foamy billow's glide ;
 Then chase the plover o'er the brake,
 Or treach'ry cast along the lake,
 Pleas'd to delude the finny fry,
The perch with glittering scales, or trout of golden dye.

Oft too, as Sol's resplendent ray
 With ardour beam'd thro' Cancer's sign,
Would I the river's margent stray,
 Or on its velvet brink recline.
 Then would Fancy ope her treasures,
 Pouring on the mind new pleasures,
 Unlocking all her fairy scenes
Of gay enamell'd groves and sweet Elysian greens.

How would she then uncurtain fate,
 And snatch the soul to yonder sky,
Events unknown to man create,
 And read conceal'd futurity ?
 Or, ages old revolving o'er,
 Their worthies place my eyes before ;
 Hero or patriot, saint or sage,
Or who e'er smote the lyre with bold poetic rage.

Flush'd with these glowing visions bright,
 What noble frenzy seiz'd the soul !
Each phantom then of dear delight
 Would round the impassion'd eye-balls roll ;
 Then o'er my temples oft the muse
 Vouchsaf'd to shed nectareous dews ;
 How would I eye her ivy crown,
And pant, in youthful heat, for deathless fair renown ?

But hence, ye dear delusions all,
 'Tis time I tear you from my breast ;
Methinks ! I hear sweet Reason call,
 “Be not with empty dreams possest !”
 Away, ye pleasing shades away,
 I brook no longer fond delay—
 Reluctant still ye from me fly,
Your airy forms I see yet flit before my eye !

But come, thou habitant of heav'n !
 Inspirer of each gallant deed ;
Virtue, bright queen, to whom 'tis given
 The soul for purer joys to breed ;
 High-arch'd, o'er yon cerulean plain,
 Sublimely shines thy sacred fane,
 The graces wait its portals nigh,
Which perfect shall endure thro' vast eternity.

Come, and thy gracious aid impart,
 Each perishing pursuit to tame ;
O root out folly from my heart,
 And thou the full possession claim.
 Each roving wish, each vain desire,
 O purge with thy celestial fire ;
 What is the world's, the people's gaze ?
Hence with the bubble fame, and idle breath of praise !

Whether, adown the stream of time,
 I pass with easy prosp'rous sails ;
Or o'er its waves I painful climb,
 Forlorn and toss'd by stormy gales ;
 Still let me check the wanton breeze,
 Nor be absorb'd in slothful ease ;
 But stedfast steer, when tempests rise
That rend my shatter'd bark, or mount it to the skies.

So come what will, the adverse scene,
 Or fortune's gay alluring smile,
Still shall I keep my soul serene,
 Superior to all sinful guile ;
 Then, whether Fate's resistless shears,
 Shall clip my thread in ripen'd years ;
 Or, in my Prime , my doom be spoke,
Undaunted shall I yield, and fearless meet the stroke.