Classic Poem

IV. 1.

Illusions vain! Can sacred Peace reside,
Where sordid gold the breast alarms,
Where cruelty inflames the eye of Pride,
And Grandeur wantons in soft Pleasure's arms!
Ambition! these are thine:
These from the soul erase the form divine;
These quench the animating fire,
That warms the bosom with sublime desire,
Thence the relentless heart forgets to feel,
Hate rides tremendous on th' o'erwhelming brow,
And midnight-Rancour grasps the cruel steel,
Blaze the funereal flames, and found the shricks of Woe.

IV. 2.

From Albion fled, thy once-belov'd retreat,
What region brightens in thy smile,
Creative Peace , and underneath thy feet
Sees sudden flowers adorn the rugged soil?
In bleak Siberia blows
Wak'd by thy genial breath the balmy rose?
Wav'd over by thy magic wand
Does life inform fell Lybia's burning sand?
Or does some isle thy parting flight detain,
Where roves the Indian through primeval shades:
Haunts the pure pleasures of the woodland reign,
And led by Reason's ray the path of Nature treads?

IV 3.

On Cuba's utmost steep
Far leaning o'er the deep
The Goddess' pensive form was seen.
Her robe of Nature's varied green
Wav'd on the gale; grief dim'd her radiant eyes,
Her swelling bosom heav'd with boding sighs:
She eyed the main; where, gaining on the view,
Emerging from th' etherial blue,
Midst the dread pomp of war
Gleam'd the Iberian streamer from afar.
She saw; and on refulgent pinions born
Slow wing'd her way sublime, and mingled with the morn.