Classic Poem

O thou, the Friend of Man assign'd,
With balmy Hands his Wounds to bind,
And charm his frantic Woe:
When first Distress with Dagger keen
Broke forth to waste his destin'd Scene,
His wild unsated Foe!

2

By Pella 's Bard, a magic Name,
By all the Griefs his Thought could frame,
Receive my humble Rite:
Long, Pity , let the Nations view
Thy sky-worn Robes of tend'rest Blue,
And Eyes of dewy Light!

3

But wherefore need I wander wide
To old Ilissus ' distant Side,
Deserted Stream, and mute?
Wild Arun too has heard thy Strains,
And Echo, 'midst my native Plains,
Been sooth'd by Pity 's Lute.

4

There first the Wren thy Myrtles shed
On gentlest Otway 's infant Head,
To Him thy Cell was shown;
And while He sung the Female Heart,
With Youth's soft Notes unspoil'd by Art,
Thy Turtles mix'd their own.

5

Come, Pity , come, by Fancy's Aid,
Ev'n now my Thoughts, relenting Maid,
Thy Temple's Pride design:
Its Southern Site, its Truth compleat
Shall raise a wild Enthusiast Heat,
In all who view the Shrine.

6

There Picture's Toils shall well relate,
How Chance, or hard involving Fate,
O'er mortal Bliss prevail:
The Buskin'd Muse shall near her stand,
And sighing prompt her tender Hand,
With each disastrous Tale.

7

There let me oft, retir'd by Day,
In Dreams of Passion melt away,
Allow'd with Thee to dwell:
There waste the mournful Lamp of Night,
Till, Virgin, Thou again delight
To hear a British Shell!